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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of You Never Can Tell, by George Bernard Shaw
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: You Never Can Tell
+
+Author: George Bernard Shaw
+
+Release Date: May, 2000  [Etext #2175]
+Last Updated: July 20, 2012
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOU NEVER CAN TELL ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+YOU NEVER CAN TELL
+
+By George Bernard Shaw
+
+
+
+
+ACT I
+
+In a dentist's operating room on a fine August morning in 1896. Not the
+usual tiny London den, but the best sitting room of a furnished lodging
+in a terrace on the sea front at a fashionable watering place. The
+operating chair, with a gas pump and cylinder beside it, is half way
+between the centre of the room and one of the corners. If you look into
+the room through the window which lights it, you will see the fireplace
+in the middle of the wall opposite you, with the door beside it to your
+left; an M.R.C.S. diploma in a frame hung on the chimneypiece; an easy
+chair covered in black leather on the hearth; a neat stool and bench,
+with vice, tools, and a mortar and pestle in the corner to the right.
+Near this bench stands a slender machine like a whip provided with a
+stand, a pedal, and an exaggerated winch. Recognising this as a dental
+drill, you shudder and look away to your left, where you can see another
+window, underneath which stands a writing table, with a blotter and a
+diary on it, and a chair. Next the writing table, towards the door, is
+a leather covered sofa. The opposite wall, close on your right, is
+occupied mostly by a bookcase. The operating chair is under your nose,
+facing you, with the cabinet of instruments handy to it on your left.
+You observe that the professional furniture and apparatus are new,
+and that the wall paper, designed, with the taste of an undertaker,
+in festoons and urns, the carpet with its symmetrical plans of rich,
+cabbagy nosegays, the glass gasalier with lustres; the ornamental gilt
+rimmed blue candlesticks on the ends of the mantelshelf, also glass
+draped with lustres, and the ormolu clock under a glass-cover in the
+middle between them, its uselessness emphasized by a cheap American
+clock disrespectfully placed beside it and now indicating 12 o'clock
+noon, all combine with the black marble which gives the fireplace the
+air of a miniature family vault, to suggest early Victorian commercial
+respectability, belief in money, Bible fetichism, fear of hell always at
+war with fear of poverty, instinctive horror of the passionate character
+of art, love and Roman Catholic religion, and all the first fruits of
+plutocracy in the early generations of the industrial revolution.
+
+There is no shadow of this on the two persons who are occupying the room
+just now. One of them, a very pretty woman in miniature, her tiny figure
+dressed with the daintiest gaiety, is of a later generation, being
+hardly eighteen yet. This darling little creature clearly does not
+belong to the room, or even to the country; for her complexion, though
+very delicate, has been burnt biscuit color by some warmer sun than
+England's; and yet there is, for a very subtle observer, a link between
+them. For she has a glass of water in her hand, and a rapidly clearing
+cloud of Spartan obstinacy on her tiny firm set mouth and quaintly
+squared eyebrows. If the least line of conscience could be traced
+between those eyebrows, an Evangelical might cherish some faint hope
+of finding her a sheep in wolf's clothing--for her frock is recklessly
+pretty--but as the cloud vanishes it leaves her frontal sinus as
+smoothly free from conviction of sin as a kitten's.
+
+The dentist, contemplating her with the self-satisfaction of a
+successful operator, is a young man of thirty or thereabouts. He does
+not give the impression of being much of a workman: his professional
+manner evidently strikes him as being a joke, and is underlain by a
+thoughtless pleasantry which betrays the young gentleman still unsettled
+and in search of amusing adventures, behind the newly set-up dentist
+in search of patients. He is not without gravity of demeanor; but the
+strained nostrils stamp it as the gravity of the humorist. His eyes are
+clear, alert, of sceptically moderate size, and yet a little rash; his
+forehead is an excellent one, with plenty of room behind it; his nose
+and chin cavalierly handsome. On the whole, an attractive, noticeable
+beginner, of whose prospects a man of business might form a tolerably
+favorable estimate.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY (handing him the glass). Thank you. (In spite of the
+biscuit complexion she has not the slightest foreign accent.)
+
+THE DENTIST (putting it down on the ledge of his cabinet of
+instruments). That was my first tooth.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY (aghast). Your first! Do you mean to say that you began
+practising on me?
+
+THE DENTIST. Every dentist has to begin on somebody.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. Yes: somebody in a hospital, not people who pay.
+
+THE DENTIST (laughing). Oh, the hospital doesn't count. I only meant my
+first tooth in private practice. Why didn't you let me give you gas?
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. Because you said it would be five shillings extra.
+
+THE DENTIST (shocked). Oh, don't say that. It makes me feel as if I had
+hurt you for the sake of five shillings.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY (with cool insolence). Well, so you have! (She gets up.)
+Why shouldn't you? it's your business to hurt people. (It amuses him to
+be treated in this fashion: he chuckles secretly as he proceeds to clean
+and replace his instruments. She shakes her dress into order; looks
+inquisitively about her; and goes to the window.) You have a good view
+of the sea from these rooms! Are they expensive?
+
+THE DENTIST. Yes.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. You don't own the whole house, do you?
+
+THE DENTIST. No.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY (taking the chair which stands at the writing-table
+and looking critically at it as she spins it round on one leg.) Your
+furniture isn't quite the latest thing, is it?
+
+THE DENTIST. It's my landlord's.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. Does he own that nice comfortable Bath chair? (pointing
+to the operating chair.)
+
+THE DENTIST. No: I have that on the hire-purchase system.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY (disparagingly). I thought so. (Looking about her again
+in search of further conclusions.) I suppose you haven't been here long?
+
+THE DENTIST. Six weeks. Is there anything else you would like to know?
+
+THE YOUNG LADY (the hint quite lost on her). Any family?
+
+THE DENTIST. I am not married.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. Of course not: anybody can see that. I meant sisters and
+mother and that sort of thing.
+
+THE DENTIST. Not on the premises.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. Hm! If you've been here six weeks, and mine was your
+first tooth, the practice can't be very large, can it?
+
+THE DENTIST. Not as yet. (He shuts the cabinet, having tidied up
+everything.)
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. Well, good luck! (She takes our her purse.) Five
+shillings, you said it would be?
+
+THE DENTIST. Five shillings.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY (producing a crown piece). Do you charge five shillings
+for everything?
+
+THE DENTIST. Yes.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. Why?
+
+THE DENTIST. It's my system. I'm what's called a five shilling dentist.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. How nice! Well, here! (holding up the crown piece) a
+nice new five shilling piece! your first fee! Make a hole in it with the
+thing you drill people's teeth with and wear it on your watch-chain.
+
+THE DENTIST. Thank you.
+
+THE PARLOR MAID (appearing at the door). The young lady's brother, sir.
+
+A handsome man in miniature, obviously the young lady's twin, comes
+in eagerly. He wears a suit of terra-cotta cashmere, the elegantly cut
+frock coat lined in brown silk, and carries in his hand a brown tall
+hat and tan gloves to match. He has his sister's delicate biscuit
+complexion, and is built on the same small scale; but he is elastic
+and strong in muscle, decisive in movement, unexpectedly deeptoned and
+trenchant in speech, and with perfect manners and a finished personal
+style which might be envied by a man twice his age. Suavity and
+self-possession are points of honor with him; and though this, rightly
+considered, is only the modern mode of boyish self-consciousness,
+its effect is none the less staggering to his elders, and would be
+insufferable in a less prepossessing youth. He is promptitude itself,
+and has a question ready the moment he enters.
+
+THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Am I on time?
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. No: it's all over.
+
+THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN. Did you howl?
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, something awful. Mr. Valentine: this is my brother
+Phil. Phil: this is Mr. Valentine, our new dentist. (Valentine and Phil
+bow to one another. She proceeds, all in one breath.) He's only been
+here six weeks; and he's a bachelor. The house isn't his; and the
+furniture is the landlord's; but the professional plant is hired. He
+got my tooth out beautifully at the first go; and he and I are great
+friends.
+
+PHILIP. Been asking a lot of questions?
+
+THE YOUNG LADY (as if incapable of doing such a thing). Oh, no.
+
+PHILIP. Glad to hear it. (To Valentine.) So good of you not to mind us,
+Mr. Valentine. The fact is, we've never been in England before; and our
+mother tells us that the people here simply won't stand us. Come and
+lunch with us. (Valentine, bewildered by the leaps and bounds with which
+their acquaintanceship is proceeding, gasps; but he has no opportunity
+of speaking, as the conversation of the twins is swift and continuous.)
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. Oh, do, Mr. Valentine.
+
+PHILIP. At the Marine Hotel--half past one.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY. We shall be able to tell mamma that a respectable
+Englishman has promised to lunch with us.
+
+PHILIP. Say no more, Mr. Valentine: you'll come.
+
+VALENTINE. Say no more! I haven't said anything. May I ask whom I have
+the pleasure of entertaining? It's really quite impossible for me to
+lunch at the Marine Hotel with two perfect strangers.
+
+THE YOUNG LADY (flippantly). Ooooh! what bosh! One patient in six weeks!
+What difference does it make to you?
+
+PHILIP (maturely). No, Dolly: my knowledge of human nature confirms
+Mr. Valentine's judgment. He is right. Let me introduce Miss Dorothy
+Clandon, commonly called Dolly. (Valentine bows to Dolly. She nods to
+him.) I'm Philip Clandon. We're from Madeira, but perfectly respectable,
+so far.
+
+VALENTINE. Clandon! Are you related to--
+
+DOLLY (unexpectedly crying out in despair). Yes, we are.
+
+VALENTINE (astonished). I beg your pardon?
+
+DOLLY. Oh, we are, we are. It's all over, Phil: they know all about us
+in England. (To Valentine.) Oh, you can't think how maddening it is to
+be related to a celebrated person, and never be valued anywhere for our
+own sakes.
+
+VALENTINE. But excuse me: the gentleman I was thinking of is not
+celebrated.
+
+DOLLY (staring at him). Gentleman! (Phil is also puzzled.)
+
+VALENTINE. Yes. I was going to ask whether you were by any chance a
+daughter of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall.
+
+DOLLY (vacantly). No.
+
+PHILIP. Well come, Dolly: how do you know you're not?
+
+DOLLY (cheered). Oh, I forgot. Of course. Perhaps I am.
+
+VALENTINE. Don't you know?
+
+PHILIP. Not in the least.
+
+DOLLY. It's a wise child--
+
+PHILIP (cutting her short). Sh! (Valentine starts nervously; for the
+sound made by Philip, though but momentary, is like cutting a sheet of
+silk in two with a flash of lightning. It is the result of long practice
+in checking Dolly's indiscretions.) The fact is, Mr. Valentine, we are
+the children of the celebrated Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon, an authoress of
+great repute--in Madeira. No household is complete without her works.
+We came to England to get away from them. The are called the Twentieth
+Century Treatises.
+
+DOLLY. Twentieth Century Cooking.
+
+PHILIP. Twentieth Century Creeds.
+
+DOLLY. Twentieth Century Clothing.
+
+PHILIP. Twentieth Century Conduct.
+
+DOLLY. Twentieth Century Children.
+
+PHILIP. Twentieth Century Parents.
+
+DOLLY. Cloth limp, half a dollar.
+
+PHILIP. Or mounted on linen for hard family use, two dollars. No family
+should be without them. Read them, Mr. Valentine: they'll improve your
+mind.
+
+DOLLY. But not till we've gone, please.
+
+PHILIP. Quite so: we prefer people with unimproved minds. Our own minds
+are in that fresh and unspoiled condition.
+
+VALENTINE (dubiously). Hm!
+
+DOLLY (echoing him inquiringly). Hm? Phil: he prefers people whose minds
+are improved.
+
+PHILIP. In that case we shall have to introduce him to the other member
+of the family: the Woman of the Twentieth Century; our sister Gloria!
+
+DOLLY (dithyrambically). Nature's masterpiece!
+
+PHILIP. Learning's daughter!
+
+DOLLY. Madeira's pride!
+
+PHILIP. Beauty's paragon!
+
+DOLLY (suddenly descending to prose). Bosh! No complexion.
+
+VALENTINE (desperately). May I have a word?
+
+PHILIP (politely). Excuse us. Go ahead.
+
+DOLLY (very nicely). So sorry.
+
+VALENTINE (attempting to take them paternally). I really must give a
+hint to you young people--
+
+DOLLY (breaking out again). Oh, come: I like that. How old are you?
+
+PHILIP. Over thirty.
+
+DOLLY. He's not.
+
+PHILIP (confidently). He is.
+
+DOLLY (emphatically). Twenty-seven.
+
+PHILIP (imperturbably). Thirty-three.
+
+DOLLY. Stuff!
+
+PHILIP (to Valentine). I appeal to you, Mr. Valentine.
+
+VALENTINE (remonstrating). Well, really--(resigning himself.)
+Thirty-one.
+
+PHILIP (to Dolly). You were wrong.
+
+DOLLY. So were you.
+
+PHILIP (suddenly conscientious). We're forgetting our manners, Dolly.
+
+DOLLY (remorseful). Yes, so we are.
+
+PHILIP (apologetic). We interrupted you, Mr. Valentine.
+
+DOLLY. You were going to improve our minds, I think.
+
+VALENTINE. The fact is, your--
+
+PHILIP (anticipating him). Our appearance?
+
+DOLLY. Our manners?
+
+VALENTINE (ad misericordiam). Oh, do let me speak.
+
+DOLLY. The old story. We talk too much.
+
+PHILIP. We do. Shut up, both. (He seats himself on the arm of the
+opposing chair.)
+
+DOLLY. Mum! (She sits down in the writing-table chair, and closes her
+lips tight with the tips of her fingers.)
+
+VALENTINE. Thank you. (He brings the stool from the bench in the corner;
+places it between them; and sits down with a judicial air. They attend
+to him with extreme gravity. He addresses himself first to Dolly.)
+Now may I ask, to begin with, have you ever been in an English seaside
+resort before? (She shakes her head slowly and solemnly. He turns to
+Phil, who shakes his head quickly and expressively.) I thought so. Well,
+Mr. Clandon, our acquaintance has been short; but it has been voluble;
+and I have gathered enough to convince me that you are neither of you
+capable of conceiving what life in an English seaside resort is. Believe
+me, it's not a question of manners and appearance. In those respects we
+enjoy a freedom unknown in Madeira. (Dolly shakes her head
+vehemently.) Oh, yes, I assure you. Lord de Cresci's sister bicycles in
+knickerbockers; and the rector's wife advocates dress reform and wears
+hygienic boots. (Dolly furtively looks at her own shoe: Valentine
+catches her in the act, and deftly adds) No, that's not the sort of boot
+I mean. (Dolly's shoe vanishes.) We don't bother much about dress and
+manners in England, because, as a nation we don't dress well and we've
+no manners. But--and now will you excuse my frankness? (They nod.) Thank
+you. Well, in a seaside resort there's one thing you must have before
+anybody can afford to be seen going about with you; and that's a father,
+alive or dead. (He looks at them alternately, with emphasis. They
+meet his gaze like martyrs.) Am I to infer that you have omitted that
+indispensable part of your social equipment? (They confirm him by
+melancholy nods.) Them I'm sorry to say that if you are going to stay
+here for any length of time, it will be impossible for me to accept
+your kind invitation to lunch. (He rises with an air of finality, and
+replaces the stool by the bench.)
+
+PHILIP (rising with grave politeness). Come, Dolly. (He gives her his
+arm.)
+
+DOLLY. Good morning. (They go together to the door with perfect
+dignity.)
+
+VALENTINE (overwhelmed with remorse). Oh, stop, stop. (They halt and
+turn, arm in arm.) You make me feel a perfect beast.
+
+DOLLY. That's your conscience: not us.
+
+VALENTINE (energetically, throwing off all pretence of a professional
+manner). My conscience! My conscience has been my ruin. Listen to me.
+Twice before I have set up as a respectable medical practitioner in
+various parts of England. On both occasions I acted conscientiously, and
+told my patients the brute truth instead of what they wanted to be told.
+Result, ruin. Now I've set up as a dentist, a five shilling dentist; and
+I've done with conscience forever. This is my last chance. I spent my
+last sovereign on moving in; and I haven't paid a shilling of rent yet.
+I'm eating and drinking on credit; my landlord is as rich as a Jew and
+as hard as nails; and I've made five shillings in six weeks. If I
+swerve by a hair's breadth from the straight line of the most rigid
+respectability, I'm done for. Under such a circumstance, is it fair to
+ask me to lunch with you when you don't know your own father?
+
+DOLLY. After all, our grandfather is a canon of Lincoln Cathedral.
+
+VALENTINE (like a castaway mariner who sees a sail on the horizon).
+What! Have you a grandfather?
+
+DOLLY. Only one.
+
+VALENTINE. My dear, good young friends, why on earth didn't you tell me
+that before? A cannon of Lincoln! That makes it all right, of course.
+Just excuse me while I change my coat. (He reaches the door in a bound
+and vanishes. Dolly and Phil stare after him, and then stare at one
+another. Missing their audience, they droop and become commonplace at
+once.)
+
+PHILIP (throwing away Dolly's arm and coming ill-humoredly towards
+the operating chair). That wretched bankrupt ivory snatcher makes a
+compliment of allowing us to stand him a lunch--probably the first
+square meal he has had for months. (He gives the chair a kick, as if it
+were Valentine.)
+
+DOLLY. It's too beastly. I won't stand it any longer, Phil. Here in
+England everybody asks whether you have a father the very first thing.
+
+PHILIP. I won't stand it either. Mamma must tell us who he was.
+
+DOLLY. Or who he is. He may be alive.
+
+PHILIP. I hope not. No man alive shall father me.
+
+DOLLY. He might have a lot of money, though.
+
+PHILIP. I doubt it. My knowledge of human nature leads me to believe
+that if he had a lot of money he wouldn't have got rid of his
+affectionate family so easily. Anyhow, let's look at the bright side of
+things. Depend on it, he's dead. (He goes to the hearth and stands with
+his back to the fireplace, spreading himself. The parlor maid appears.
+The twins, under observation, instantly shine out again with their
+former brilliancy.)
+
+THE PARLOR MAID. Two ladies for you, miss. Your mother and sister, miss,
+I think.
+
+Mrs. Clandon and Gloria come in. Mrs. Clandon is between forty and
+fifty, with a slight tendency to soft, sedentary fat, and a fair
+remainder of good looks, none the worse preserved because she has
+evidently followed the old tribal matronly fashion of making no
+pretension in that direction after her marriage, and might almost be
+suspected of wearing a cap at home. She carries herself artificially
+well, as women were taught to do as a part of good manners by dancing
+masters and reclining boards before these were superseded by the modern
+artistic cult of beauty and health. Her hair, a flaxen hazel fading into
+white, is crimped, and parted in the middle with the ends plaited and
+made into a knot, from which observant people of a certain age infer
+that Mrs. Clandon had sufficient individuality and good taste to stand
+out resolutely against the now forgotten chignon in her girlhood. In
+short, she is distinctly old fashioned for her age in dress and manners.
+But she belongs to the forefront of her own period (say 1860-80) in a
+jealously assertive attitude of character and intellect, and in being
+a woman of cultivated interests rather than passionately developed
+personal affections. Her voice and ways are entirely kindly and humane;
+and she lends herself conscientiously to the occasional demonstrations
+of fondness by which her children mark their esteem for her; but
+displays of personal sentiment secretly embarrass her: passion in her
+is humanitarian rather than human: she feels strongly about social
+questions and principles, not about persons. Only, one observes that
+this reasonableness and intense personal privacy, which leaves her
+relations with Gloria and Phil much as they might be between her and the
+children of any other woman, breaks down in the case of Dolly. Though
+almost every word she addresses to her is necessarily in the nature of a
+remonstrance for some breach of decorum, the tenderness in her voice is
+unmistakable; and it is not surprising that years of such remonstrance
+have left Dolly hopelessly spoiled.
+
+Gloria, who is hardly past twenty, is a much more formidable person than
+her mother. She is the incarnation of haughty highmindedness, raging
+with the impatience of an impetuous, dominative character paralyzed by
+the impotence of her youth, and unwillingly disciplined by the constant
+danger of ridicule from her lighter-handed juniors. Unlike her mother,
+she is all passion; and the conflict of her passion with her obstinate
+pride and intense fastidiousness results in a freezing coldness of
+manner. In an ugly woman all this would be repulsive; but Gloria is
+an attractive woman. Her deep chestnut hair, olive brown skin, long
+eyelashes, shaded grey eyes that often flash like stars, delicately
+turned full lips, and compact and supple, but muscularly plump figure
+appeal with disdainful frankness to the senses and imagination. A very
+dangerous girl, one would say, if the moral passions were not also
+marked, and even nobly marked, in a fine brow. Her tailor-made
+skirt-and-jacket dress of saffron brown cloth, seems conventional when
+her back is turned; but it displays in front a blouse of sea-green silk
+which upsets its conventionality with one stroke, and sets her apart as
+effectually as the twins from the ordinary run of fashionable seaside
+humanity.
+
+Mrs. Clandon comes a little way into the room, looking round to see
+who is present. Gloria, who studiously avoids encouraging the twins by
+betraying any interest in them, wanders to the window and looks out with
+her thoughts far away. The parlor maid, instead of withdrawing, shuts
+the door and waits at it.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Well, children? How is the toothache, Dolly?
+
+DOLLY. Cured, thank Heaven. I've had it out. (She sits down on the step
+of the operating chair. Mrs. Clandon takes the writing-table chair.)
+
+PHILIP (striking in gravely from the hearth). And the dentist, a
+first-rate professional man of the highest standing, is coming to lunch
+with us.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (looking round apprehensively at the servant). Phil!
+
+THE PARLOR MAID. Beg pardon, ma'am. I'm waiting for Mr. Valentine. I
+have a message for him.
+
+DOLLY. Who from?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Dolly! (Dolly catches her lips with her finger
+tips, suppressing a little splutter of mirth.)
+
+THE PARLOR MAID. Only the landlord, ma'am.
+
+Valentine, in a blue serge suit, with a straw hat in his hand, comes
+back in high spirits, out of breath with the haste he has made. Gloria
+turns from the window and studies him with freezing attention.
+
+PHILIP. Let me introduce you, Mr. Valentine. My mother, Mrs. Lanfrey
+Clandon. (Mrs. Clandon bows. Valentine bows, self-possessed and quite
+equal to the occasion.) My sister Gloria. (Gloria bows with cold dignity
+and sits down on the sofa. Valentine falls in love at first sight and
+is miserably confused. He fingers his hat nervously, and makes her a
+sneaking bow.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I understand that we are to have the pleasure of seeing
+you at luncheon to-day, Mr. Valentine.
+
+VALENTINE. Thank you--er--if you don't mind--I mean if you will be so
+kind--(to the parlor maid testily) What is it?
+
+THE PARLOR MAID. The landlord, sir, wishes to speak to you before you go
+out.
+
+VALENTINE. Oh, tell him I have four patients here. (The Clandons look
+surprised, except Phil, who is imperturbable.) If he wouldn't mind
+waiting just two minutes, I--I'll slip down and see him for a moment.
+(Throwing himself confidentially on her sense of the position.) Say I'm
+busy, but that I want to see him.
+
+THE PARLOR MAID (reassuringly). Yes, sir. (She goes.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (on the point of rising). We are detaining you, I am
+afraid.
+
+VALENTINE. Not at all, not at all. Your presence here will be the
+greatest help to me. The fact is, I owe six week's rent; and I've had
+no patients until to-day. My interview with my landlord will be
+considerably smoothed by the apparent boom in my business.
+
+DOLLY (vexed). Oh, how tiresome of you to let it all out! And we've
+just been pretending that you were a respectable professional man in a
+first-rate position.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (horrified). Oh, Dolly, Dolly! My dearest, how can you be
+so rude? (To Valentine.) Will you excuse these barbarian children of
+mine, Mr. Valentine?
+
+VALENTINE. Thank you, I'm used to them. Would it be too much to ask you
+to wait five minutes while I get rid of my landlord downstairs?
+
+DOLLY. Don't be long. We're hungry.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (again remonstrating). Dolly, dear!
+
+VALENTINE (to Dolly). All right. (To Mrs. Clandon.) Thank you: I shan't
+be long. (He steals a look at Gloria as he turns to go. She is looking
+gravely at him. He falls into confusion.) I--er--er--yes--thank you
+(he succeeds at last in blundering himself out of the room; but the
+exhibition is a pitiful one).
+
+PHILIP. Did you observe? (Pointing to Gloria.) Love at first sight. You
+can add his scalp to your collection, Gloria.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Sh--sh, pray, Phil. He may have heard you.
+
+PHILIP. Not he. (Bracing himself for a scene.) And now look here, mamma.
+(He takes the stool from the bench; and seats himself majestically in
+the middle of the room, taking a leaf out of Valentine's book. Dolly,
+feeling that her position on the step of the operating chair is unworthy
+of the dignity of the occasion, rises, looking important and determined;
+crosses to the window; and stands with her back to the end of the
+writing-table, her hands behind her and on the table. Mrs. Clandon looks
+at them, wondering what is coming. Gloria becomes attentive. Philip
+straightens his back; places his knuckles symmetrically on his knees;
+and opens his case.) Dolly and I have been talking over things a good
+deal lately; and I don't think, judging from my knowledge of human
+nature--we don't think that you (speaking very staccato, with the words
+detached) quite appreciate the fact--
+
+DOLLY (seating herself on the end of the table with a spring). That
+we've grown up.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Indeed? In what way have I given you any reason to
+complain?
+
+PHILIP. Well, there are certain matters upon which we are beginning to
+feel that you might take us a little more into your confidence.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (rising, with all the placidity of her age suddenly broken
+up; and a curious hard excitement, dignified but dogged, ladylike
+but implacable--the manner of the Old Guard of the Women's Rights
+movement--coming upon her). Phil: take care. Remember what I have
+always taught you. There are two sorts of family life, Phil; and
+your experience of human nature only extends, so far, to one of them.
+(Rhetorically.) The sort you know is based on mutual respect,
+on recognition of the right of every member of the household to
+independence and privacy (her emphasis on "privacy" is intense) in their
+personal concerns. And because you have always enjoyed that, it seems
+such a matter of course to you that you don't value it. But (with biting
+acrimony) there is another sort of family life: a life in which husbands
+open their wives' letters, and call on them to account for every
+farthing of their expenditure and every moment of their time; in which
+women do the same to their children; in which no room is private and
+no hour sacred; in which duty, obedience, affection, home, morality
+and religion are detestable tyrannies, and life is a vulgar round of
+punishments and lies, coercion and rebellion, jealousy, suspicion,
+recrimination--Oh! I cannot describe it to you: fortunately for you, you
+know nothing about it. (She sits down, panting. Gloria has listened to
+her with flashing eyes, sharing all her indignation.)
+
+DOLLY (inaccessible to rhetoric). See Twentieth Century Parents, chapter
+on Liberty, passim.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (touching her shoulder affectionately, soothed even by a
+gibe from her). My dear Dolly: if you only knew how glad I am that it is
+nothing but a joke to you, though it is such bitter earnest to me. (More
+resolutely, turning to Philip.) Phil, I never ask you questions about
+your private concerns. You are not going to question me, are you?
+
+PHILIP. I think it due to ourselves to say that the question we wanted
+to ask is as much our business as yours.
+
+DOLLY. Besides, it can't be good to keep a lot of questions bottled up
+inside you. You did it, mamma; but see how awfully it's broken out again
+in me.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I see you want to ask your question. Ask it.
+
+DOLLY AND PHILIP (beginning simultaneously). Who-- (They stop.)
+
+PHILIP. Now look here, Dolly: am I going to conduct this business or are
+you?
+
+DOLLY. You.
+
+PHILIP. Then hold your mouth. (Dolly does so literally.) The question is
+a simple one. When the ivory snatcher--
+
+MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil!
+
+PHILIP. Dentist is an ugly word. The man of ivory and gold asked us
+whether we were the children of Mr. Densmore Clandon of Newbury Hall. In
+pursuance of the precepts in your treatise on Twentieth Century Conduct,
+and your repeated personal exhortations to us to curtail the number of
+unnecessary lies we tell, we replied truthfully the we didn't know.
+
+DOLLY. Neither did we.
+
+PHILIP. Sh! The result was that the gum architect made considerable
+difficulties about accepting our invitation to lunch, although I doubt
+if he has had anything but tea and bread and butter for a fortnight
+past. Now my knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that we had a
+father, and that you probably know who he was.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (her agitation returning). Stop, Phil. Your father is
+nothing to you, nor to me (vehemently). That is enough. (The twins are
+silenced, but not satisfied. Their faces fall. But Gloria, who has been
+following the altercation attentively, suddenly intervenes.)
+
+GLORIA (advancing). Mother: we have a right to know.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (rising and facing her). Gloria! "We!" Who is "we"?
+
+GLORIA (steadfastly). We three. (Her tone is unmistakable: she is
+pitting her strength against her mother for the first time. The twins
+instantly go over to the enemy.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (wounded). In your mouth "we" used to mean you and I,
+Gloria.
+
+PHILIP (rising decisively and putting away the stool). We're hurting
+you: let's drop it. We didn't think you'd mind. I don't want to know.
+
+DOLLY (coming off the table). I'm sure I don't. Oh, don't look like
+that, mamma. (She looks angrily at Gloria.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (touching her eyes hastily with her handkerchief and
+sitting down again). Thank you, my dear. Thanks, Phil.
+
+GLORIA (inexorably). We have a right to know, mother.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (indignantly). Ah! You insist.
+
+GLORIA. Do you intend that we shall never know?
+
+DOLLY. Oh, Gloria, don't. It's barbarous.
+
+GLORIA (with quiet scorn). What is the use of being weak? You see
+what has happened with this gentleman here, mother. The same thing has
+happened to me.
+
+MRS. CLANDON } (all { What do you mean?
+
+DOLLY } together). { Oh, tell us.
+
+PHILIP } { What happened to you?
+
+GLORIA. Oh, nothing of any consequence. (She turns away from them and
+goes up to the easy chair at the fireplace, where she sits down, almost
+with her back to them. As they wait expectantly, she adds, over her
+shoulder, with studied indifference.) On board the steamer the first
+officer did me the honor to propose to me.
+
+DOLLY. No, it was to me.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. The first officer! Are you serious, Gloria? What did you
+say to him? (correcting herself) Excuse me: I have no right to ask that.
+
+GLORIA. The answer is pretty obvious. A woman who does not know who her
+father was cannot accept such an offer.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Surely you did not want to accept it?
+
+GLORIA (turning a little and raising her voice). No; but suppose I had
+wanted to!
+
+PHILIP. Did that difficulty strike you, Dolly?
+
+DOLLY. No, I accepted him.
+
+GLORIA } (all crying { Accepted him!
+
+MRS. CLANDON } out { Dolly!
+
+PHILIP } together) { Oh, I say!
+
+DOLLY (naively). He did look such a fool!
+
+MRS. CLANDON. But why did you do such a thing, Dolly?
+
+DOLLY. For fun, I suppose. He had to measure my finger for a ring. You'd
+have done the same thing yourself.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. No, Dolly, I would not. As a matter of fact the first
+officer did propose to me; and I told him to keep that sort of thing for
+women were young enough to be amused by it. He appears to have acted on
+my advice. (She rises and goes to the hearth.) Gloria: I am sorry you
+think me weak; but I cannot tell you what you want. You are all too
+young.
+
+PHILIP. This is rather a startling departure from Twentieth Century
+principles.
+
+DOLLY (quoting). "Answer all your children's questions, and answer them
+truthfully, as soon as they are old enough to ask them." See Twentieth
+Century Motherhood--
+
+PHILIP. Page one--
+
+DOLLY. Chapter one--
+
+PHILIP. Sentence one.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. My dears: I did not say that you were too young to know.
+I said you were too young to be taken into my confidence. You are very
+bright children, all of you; but I am glad for your sakes that you are
+still very inexperienced and consequently very unsympathetic. There are
+some experiences of mine that I cannot bear to speak of except to those
+who have gone through what I have gone through. I hope you will never
+be qualified for such confidences. But I will take care that you shall
+learn all you want to know. Will that satisfy you?
+
+PHILIP. Another grievance, Dolly.
+
+DOLLY. We're not sympathetic.
+
+GLORIA (leaning forward in her chair and looking earnestly up at her
+mother). Mother: I did not mean to be unsympathetic.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (affectionately). Of course not, dear. Do you think I don't
+understand?
+
+GLORIA (rising). But, mother--
+
+MRS. CLANDON (drawing back a little). Yes?
+
+GLORIA (obstinately). It is nonsense to tell us that our father is
+nothing to us.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (provoked to sudden resolution). Do you remember your
+father?
+
+GLORIA (meditatively, as if the recollection were a tender one). I am
+not quite sure. I think so.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (grimly). You are not sure?
+
+GLORIA. No.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (with quiet force). Gloria: if I had ever struck you--
+(Gloria recoils: Philip and Dolly are disagreeably shocked; all
+three start at her, revolted as she continues)--struck you purposely,
+deliberately, with the intention of hurting you, with a whip bought for
+the purpose! Would you remember that, do you think? (Gloria utters an
+exclamation of indignant repulsion.) That would have been your last
+recollection of your father, Gloria, if I had not taken you away from
+him. I have kept him out of your life: keep him now out of mine by never
+mentioning him to me again. (Gloria, with a shudder, covers her face
+with her hands, until, hearing someone at the door, she turns away and
+pretends to occupy herself looking at the names of the books in the
+bookcase. Mrs. Clandon sits down on the sofa. Valentine returns.).
+
+VALENTINE. I hope I've not kept you waiting. That landlord of mine is
+really an extraordinary old character.
+
+DOLLY (eagerly). Oh, tell us. How long has he given you to pay?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (distracted by her child's bad manners). Dolly, Dolly,
+Dolly dear! You must not ask questions.
+
+DOLLY (demurely). So sorry. You'll tell us, won't you, Mr. Valentine?
+
+VALENTINE. He doesn't want his rent at all. He's broken his tooth on
+a Brazil nut; and he wants me to look at it and to lunch with him
+afterwards.
+
+DOLLY. Then have him up and pull his tooth out at once; and we'll bring
+him to lunch, too. Tell the maid to fetch him along. (She runs to the
+bell and rings it vigorously. Then, with a sudden doubt she turns to
+Valentine and adds) I suppose he's respectable--really respectable.
+
+VALENTINE. Perfectly. Not like me.
+
+DOLLY. Honest Injun? (Mrs. Clandon gasps faintly; but her powers of
+remonstrance are exhausted.)
+
+VALENTINE. Honest Injun!
+
+DOLLY. Then off with you and bring him up.
+
+VALENTINE (looking dubiously at Mrs. Clandon). I daresay he'd be
+delighted if--er--?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (rising and looking at her watch). I shall be happy to see
+your friend at lunch, if you can persuade him to come; but I can't wait
+to see him now: I have an appointment at the hotel at a quarter to one
+with an old friend whom I have not seen since I left England eighteen
+years ago. Will you excuse me?
+
+VALENTINE. Certainly, Mrs. Clandon.
+
+GLORIA. Shall I come?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. No, dear. I want to be alone. (She goes out, evidently
+still a good deal troubled. Valentine opens the door for her and follows
+her out.)
+
+PHILIP (significantly--to Dolly). Hmhm!
+
+DOLLY (significantly to Philip). Ahah! (The parlor maid answers the
+bell.)
+
+DOLLY. Show the old gentleman up.
+
+THE PARLOR MAID (puzzled). Madam?
+
+DOLLY. The old gentleman with the toothache.
+
+PHILIP. The landlord.
+
+THE PARLOR MAID. Mr. Crampton, Sir?
+
+PHILIP. Is his name Crampton?
+
+DOLLY (to Philip). Sounds rheumaticky, doesn't it?
+
+PHILIP. Chalkstones, probably.
+
+DOLLY (over her shoulder, to the parlor maid). Show Mr. Crampstones up.
+(Goes R. to writing-table chair).
+
+THE PARLOR MAID (correcting her). Mr. Crampton, miss. (She goes.)
+
+DOLLY (repeating it to herself like a lesson). Crampton, Crampton,
+Crampton, Crampton, Crampton. (She sits down studiously at the
+writing-table.) I must get that name right, or Heaven knows what I shall
+call him.
+
+GLORIA. Phil: can you believe such a horrible thing as that about our
+father--what mother said just now?
+
+PHILIP. Oh, there are lots of people of that kind. Old Chalice used to
+thrash his wife and daughters with a cartwhip.
+
+DOLLY (contemptuously). Yes, a Portuguese!
+
+PHILIP. When you come to men who are brutes, there is much in common
+between the Portuguese and the English variety, Doll. Trust my knowledge
+of human nature. (He resumes his position on the hearthrug with an
+elderly and responsible air.)
+
+GLORIA (with angered remorse). I don't think we shall ever play again at
+our old game of guessing what our father was to be like. Dolly: are you
+sorry for your father--the father with lots of money?
+
+DOLLY. Oh, come! What about your father--the lonely old man with the
+tender aching heart? He's pretty well burst up, I think.
+
+PHILIP. There can be no doubt that the governor is an exploded
+superstition. (Valentine is heard talking to somebody outside the door.)
+But hark: he comes.
+
+GLORIA (nervously). Who?
+
+DOLLY. Chalkstones.
+
+PHILIP. Sh! Attention. (They put on their best manners. Philip adds in
+a lower voice to Gloria) If he's good enough for the lunch, I'll nod to
+Dolly; and if she nods to you, invite him straight away.
+
+(Valentine comes back with his landlord. Mr. Fergus Crampton is a man of
+about sixty, tall, hard and stringy, with an atrociously obstinate, ill
+tempered, grasping mouth, and a querulously dogmatic voice. Withal he
+is highly nervous and sensitive, judging by his thin transparent skin
+marked with multitudinous lines, and his slender fingers. His consequent
+capacity for suffering acutely from all the dislike that his temper and
+obstinacy can bring upon him is proved by his wistful, wounded eyes,
+by a plaintive note in his voice, a painful want of confidence in his
+welcome, and a constant but indifferently successful effort to correct
+his natural incivility of manner and proneness to take offence. By his
+keen brows and forehead he is clearly a shrewd man; and there is no
+sign of straitened means or commercial diffidence about him: he is
+well dressed, and would be classed at a guess as a prosperous master
+manufacturer in a business inherited from an old family in the
+aristocracy of trade. His navy blue coat is not of the usual fashionable
+pattern. It is not exactly a pilot's coat; but it is cut that way,
+double breasted, and with stout buttons and broad lapels, a coat for
+a shipyard rather than a counting house. He has taken a fancy to
+Valentine, who cares nothing for his crossness of grain and treats
+him with a sort of disrespectful humanity, for which he is secretly
+grateful.)
+
+VALENTINE. May I introduce--this is Mr. Crampton--Miss Dorothy Clandon,
+Mr. Philip Clandon, Miss Clandon. (Crampton stands nervously bowing.
+They all bow.) Sit down, Mr. Crampton.
+
+DOLLY (pointing to the operating chair). That is the most comfortable
+chair, Mr. Ch--crampton.
+
+CRAMPTON. Thank you; but won't this young lady--(indicating Gloria, who
+is close to the chair)?
+
+GLORIA. Thank you, Mr. Crampton: we are just going.
+
+VALENTINE (bustling him across to the chair with good-humored
+peremptoriness). Sit down, sit down. You're tired.
+
+CRAMPTON. Well, perhaps as I am considerably the oldest person present,
+I-- (He finishes the sentence by sitting down a little rheumatically in
+the operating chair. Meanwhile, Philip, having studied him critically
+during his passage across the room, nods to Dolly; and Dolly nods to
+Gloria.)
+
+GLORIA. Mr. Crampton: we understand that we are preventing Mr. Valentine
+from lunching with you by taking him away ourselves. My mother would be
+very glad, indeed, if you would come too.
+
+CRAMPTON (gratefully, after looking at her earnestly for a moment).
+Thank you. I will come with pleasure.
+
+GLORIA } (politely { Thank you very much--er--
+
+DOLLY } murmuring).{ So glad--er--
+
+PHILIP } { Delighted, I'm sure--er--
+
+(The conversation drops. Gloria and Dolly look at one another; then at
+Valentine and Philip. Valentine and Philip, unequal to the occasion,
+look away from them at one another, and are instantly so disconcerted by
+catching one another's eye, that they look back again and catch the eyes
+of Gloria and Dolly. Thus, catching one another all round, they all look
+at nothing and are quite at a loss. Crampton looks about him, waiting
+for them to begin. The silence becomes unbearable.)
+
+DOLLY (suddenly, to keep things going). How old are you, Mr. Crampton?
+
+GLORIA (hastily). I am afraid we must be going, Mr. Valentine. It is
+understood, then, that we meet at half past one. (She makes for the
+door. Philip goes with her. Valentine retreats to the bell.)
+
+VALENTINE. Half past one. (He rings the bell.) Many thanks. (He follows
+Gloria and Philip to the door, and goes out with them.)
+
+DOLLY (who has meanwhile stolen across to Crampton). Make him give you
+gas. It's five shillings extra: but it's worth it.
+
+CRAMPTON (amused). Very well. (Looking more earnestly at her.) So you
+want to know my age, do you? I'm fifty-seven.
+
+DOLLY (with conviction). You look it.
+
+CRAMPTON (grimly). I dare say I do.
+
+DOLLY. What are you looking at me so hard for? Anything wrong? (She
+feels whether her hat is right.)
+
+CRAMPTON. You're like somebody.
+
+DOLLY. Who?
+
+CRAMPTON. Well, you have a curious look of my mother.
+
+DOLLY (incredulously). Your mother!!! Quite sure you don't mean your
+daughter?
+
+CRAMPTON (suddenly blackening with hate). Yes: I'm quite sure I don't
+mean my daughter.
+
+DOLLY (sympathetically). Tooth bad?
+
+CRAMPTON. No, no: nothing. A twinge of memory, Miss Clandon, not of
+toothache.
+
+DOLLY. Have it out. "Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow:" with gas,
+five shillings extra.
+
+CRAMPTON (vindictively). No, not a sorrow. An injury that was done me
+once: that's all. I don't forget injuries; and I don't want to forget
+them. (His features settle into an implacable frown.)
+
+(re-enter Philip: to look for Dolly. He comes down behind her
+unobserved.)
+
+DOLLY (looking critically at Crampton's expression). I don't think we
+shall like you when you are brooding over your sorrows.
+
+PHILIP (who has entered the room unobserved, and stolen behind her).
+My sister means well, Mr. Crampton: but she is indiscreet. Now Dolly,
+outside! (He takes her towards the door.)
+
+DOLLY (in a perfectly audible undertone). He says he's only fifty-seven;
+and he thinks me the image of his mother; and he hates his daughter;
+and-- (She is interrupted by the return of Valentine.)
+
+VALENTINE. Miss Clandon has gone on.
+
+PHILIP. Don't forget half past one.
+
+DOLLY. Mind you leave Mr. Crampton with enough teeth to eat with. (They
+go out. Valentine comes down to his cabinet, and opens it.)
+
+CRAMPTON. That's a spoiled child, Mr. Valentine. That's one of your
+modern products. When I was her age, I had many a good hiding fresh in
+my memory to teach me manners.
+
+VALENTINE (taking up his dental mirror and probe from the shelf in front
+of the cabinet). What did you think of her sister?
+
+CRAMPTON. You liked her better, eh?
+
+VALENTINE (rhapsodically). She struck me as being-- (He checks himself,
+and adds, prosaically) However, that's not business. (He places himself
+behind Crampton's right shoulder and assumes his professional tone.)
+Open, please. (Crampton opens his mouth. Valentine puts the mirror in,
+and examines his teeth.) Hm! You have broken that one. What a pity to
+spoil such a splendid set of teeth! Why do you crack nuts with them? (He
+withdraws the mirror, and comes forward to converse with Crampton.)
+
+CRAMPTON. I've always cracked nuts with them: what else are they for?
+(Dogmatically.) The proper way to keep teeth good is to give them plenty
+of use on bones and nuts, and wash them every day with soap-- plain
+yellow soap.
+
+VALENTINE. Soap! Why soap?
+
+CRAMPTON. I began using it as a boy because I was made to; and I've used
+it ever since. And I never had toothache in my life.
+
+VALENTINE. Don't you find it rather nasty?
+
+CRAMPTON. I found that most things that were good for me were nasty. But
+I was taught to put up with them, and made to put up with them. I'm used
+to it now: in fact, I like the taste when the soap is really good.
+
+VALENTINE (making a wry face in spite of himself). You seem to have been
+very carefully educated, Mr. Crampton.
+
+CRAMPTON (grimly). I wasn't spoiled, at all events.
+
+VALENTINE (smiling a little to himself). Are you quite sure?
+
+CRAMPTON. What d'y' mean?
+
+VALENTINE. Well, your teeth are good, I admit. But I've seen just as
+good in very self-indulgent mouths. (He goes to the ledge of cabinet and
+changes the probe for another one.)
+
+CRAMPTON. It's not the effect on the teeth: it's the effect on the
+character.
+
+VALENTINE (placably). Oh, the character, I see. (He recommences
+operations.) A little wider, please. Hm! That one will have to come out:
+it's past saving. (He withdraws the probe and again comes to the side of
+the chair to converse.) Don't be alarmed: you shan't feel anything. I'll
+give you gas.
+
+CRAMPTON. Rubbish, man: I want none of your gas. Out with it. People
+were taught to bear necessary pain in my day.
+
+VALENTINE. Oh, if you like being hurt, all right. I'll hurt you as much
+as you like, without any extra charge for the beneficial effect on your
+character.
+
+CRAMPTON (rising and glaring at him). Young man: you owe me six weeks'
+rent.
+
+VALENTINE. I do.
+
+CRAMPTON. Can you pay me?
+
+VALENTINE. No.
+
+CRAMPTON (satisfied with his advantage). I thought not. How soon d'y'
+think you'll be able to pay me if you have no better manners than to
+make game of your patients? (He sits down again.)
+
+VALENTINE. My good sir: my patients haven't all formed their characters
+on kitchen soap.
+
+CRAMPTON (suddenly gripping him by the arm as he turns away again to the
+cabinet). So much the worse for them. I tell you you don't understand my
+character. If I could spare all my teeth, I'd make you pull them all
+out one after another to shew you what a properly hardened man can go
+through with when he's made up his mind to do it. (He nods at him to
+enforce the effect of this declaration, and releases him.)
+
+VALENTINE (his careless pleasantry quite unruffled). And you want to be
+more hardened, do you?
+
+CRAMPTON. Yes.
+
+VALENTINE (strolling away to the bell). Well, you're quite hard enough
+for me already--as a landlord. (Crampton receives this with a growl of
+grim humor. Valentine rings the bell, and remarks in a cheerful, casual
+way, whilst waiting for it to be answered.) Why did you never get
+married, Mr. Crampton? A wife and children would have taken some of the
+hardness out of you.
+
+CRAMPTON (with unexpected ferocity). What the devil is that to you? (The
+parlor maid appears at the door.)
+
+VALENTINE (politely). Some warm water, please. (She retires: and
+Valentine comes back to the cabinet, not at all put out by Crampton's
+rudeness, and carries on the conversation whilst he selects a forceps
+and places it ready to his hand with a gag and a drinking glass.) You
+were asking me what the devil that was to me. Well, I have an idea of
+getting married myself.
+
+CRAMPTON (with grumbling irony). Naturally, sir, naturally. When a young
+man has come to his last farthing, and is within twenty-four hours of
+having his furniture distrained upon by his landlord, he marries. I've
+noticed that before. Well, marry; and be miserable.
+
+VALENTINE. Oh, come, what do you know about it?
+
+CRAMPTON. I'm not a bachelor.
+
+VALENTINE. Then there is a Mrs. Crampton?
+
+CRAMPTON (wincing with a pang of resentment). Yes--damn her!
+
+VALENTINE (unperturbed). Hm! A father, too, perhaps, as well as a
+husband, Mr. Crampton?
+
+CRAMPTON. Three children.
+
+VALENTINE (politely). Damn them?--eh?
+
+CRAMPTON (jealously). No, sir: the children are as much mine as hers.
+(The parlor maid brings in a jug of hot water.)
+
+VALENTINE. Thank you. (He takes the jug from her, and brings it to the
+cabinet, continuing in the same idle strain) I really should like to
+know your family, Mr. Crampton. (The parlor maid goes out: and he pours
+some hot water into the drinking glass.)
+
+CRAMPTON. Sorry I can't introduce you, sir. I'm happy to say that I
+don't know where they are, and don't care, so long as they keep out of
+my way. (Valentine, with a hitch of his eyebrows and shoulders, drops
+the forceps with a clink into the glass of hot water.) You needn't warm
+that thing to use on me. I'm not afraid of the cold steel. (Valentine
+stoops to arrange the gas pump and cylinder beside the chair.) What's
+that heavy thing?
+
+VALENTINE. Oh, never mind. Something to put my foot on, to get the
+necessary purchase for a good pull. (Crampton looks alarmed in spite of
+himself. Valentine stands upright and places the glass with the forceps
+in it ready to his hand, chatting on with provoking indifference.) And
+so you advise me not to get married, Mr. Crampton? (He stoops to fit the
+handle on the apparatus by which the chair is raised and lowered.)
+
+CRAMPTON (irritably). I advise you to get my tooth out and have done
+reminding me of my wife. Come along, man. (He grips the arms of the
+chair and braces himself.)
+
+VALENTINE (pausing, with his hand on the lever, to look up at him and
+say). What do you bet that I don't get that tooth out without your
+feeling it?
+
+CRAMPTON. Your six week's rent, young man. Don't you gammon me.
+
+VALENTINE (jumping at the bet and winding him aloft vigorously). Done!
+Are you ready? (Crampton, who has lost his grip of the chair in his
+alarm at its sudden ascent, folds his arms: sits stiffly upright: and
+prepares for the worst. Valentine lets down the back of the chair to an
+obtuse angle.)
+
+CRAMPTON (clutching at the arms of the chair as he falls back). Take
+care man. I'm quite helpless in this po---
+
+VALENTINE (deftly stopping him with the gag, and snatching up the
+mouthpiece of the gas machine). You'll be more helpless presently. (He
+presses the mouthpiece over Crampton's mouth and nose, leaning over
+his chest so as to hold his head and shoulders well down on the chair.
+Crampton makes an inarticulate sound in the mouthpiece and tries to
+lay hands on Valentine, whom he supposes to be in front of him. After
+a moment his arms wave aimlessly, then subside and drop. He is quite
+insensible. Valentine, with an exclamation of somewhat preoccupied
+triumph, throws aside the mouthpiece quickly: picks up the forceps
+adroitly from the glass: and--the curtain falls.)
+
+END OF ACT I.
+
+
+
+
+ACT II
+
+
+On the terrace at the Marine Hotel. It is a square flagged platform,
+with a parapet of heavy oil jar pilasters supporting a broad stone
+coping on the outer edge, which stands up over the sea like a cliff.
+The head waiter of the establishment, busy laying napkins on a luncheon
+table with his back to the sea, has the hotel on his right, and on his
+left, in the corner nearest the sea, the flight of steps leading down to
+the beach.
+
+When he looks down the terrace in front of him he sees a little to his
+left a solitary guest, a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair of
+iron laths at a little iron table with a bowl of lump sugar and three
+wasps on it, reading the Standard, with his umbrella up to defend him
+from the sun, which, in August and at less than an hour after noon, is
+toasting his protended insteps. Just opposite him, at the hotel side of
+the terrace, there is a garden seat of the ordinary esplanade pattern.
+Access to the hotel for visitors is by an entrance in the middle of
+its facade, reached by a couple of steps on a broad square of raised
+pavement. Nearer the parapet there lurks a way to the kitchen, masked by
+a little trellis porch. The table at which the waiter is occupied is a
+long one, set across the terrace with covers and chairs for five, two at
+each side and one at the end next the hotel. Against the parapet another
+table is prepared as a buffet to serve from.
+
+The waiter is a remarkable person in his way. A silky old man,
+white-haired and delicate looking, but so cheerful and contented that
+in his encouraging presence ambition stands rebuked as vulgarity, and
+imagination as treason to the abounding sufficiency and interest of
+the actual. He has a certain expression peculiar to men who have been
+extraordinarily successful in their calling, and who, whilst aware of
+the vanity of success, are untouched by envy.
+
+The gentleman at the iron table is not dressed for the seaside. He wears
+his London frock coat and gloves; and his tall silk hat is on the table
+beside the sugar bowl. The excellent condition and quality of these
+garments, the gold-rimmed folding spectacles through which he is reading
+the Standard, and the Times at his elbow overlaying the local paper,
+all testify to his respectability. He is about fifty, clean shaven, and
+close-cropped, with the corners of his mouth turned down purposely, as
+if he suspected them of wanting to turn up, and was determined not to
+let them have their way. He has large expansive ears, cod colored eyes,
+and a brow kept resolutely wide open, as if, again, he had resolved in
+his youth to be truthful, magnanimous, and incorruptible, but had never
+succeeded in making that habit of mind automatic and unconscious. Still,
+he is by no means to be laughed at. There is no sign of stupidity or
+infirmity of will about him: on the contrary, he would pass anywhere
+at sight as a man of more than average professional capacity and
+responsibility. Just at present he is enjoying the weather and the sea
+too much to be out of patience; but he has exhausted all the news in his
+papers and is at present reduced to the advertisements, which are not
+sufficiently succulent to induce him to persevere with them.
+
+
+THE GENTLEMAN (yawning and giving up the paper as a bad job). Waiter!
+
+WAITER. Sir? (coming down C.)
+
+THE GENTLEMAN. Are you quite sure Mrs. Clandon is coming back before
+lunch?
+
+WAITER. Quite sure, sir. She expects you at a quarter to one, sir. (The
+gentleman, soothed at once by the waiter's voice, looks at him with a
+lazy smile. It is a quiet voice, with a gentle melody in it that gives
+sympathetic interest to his most commonplace remark; and he speaks with
+the sweetest propriety, neither dropping his aitches nor misplacing
+them, nor committing any other vulgarism. He looks at his watch as he
+continues) Not that yet, sir, is it? 12:43, sir. Only two minutes more
+to wait, sir. Nice morning, sir?
+
+THE GENTLEMAN. Yes: very fresh after London.
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir: so all our visitors say, sir. Very nice family, Mrs.
+Clandon's, sir.
+
+THE GENTLEMAN. You like them, do you?
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir. They have a free way with them that is very taking,
+sir, very taking indeed, sir: especially the young lady and gentleman.
+
+THE GENTLEMAN. Miss Dorothea and Mr. Philip, I suppose.
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir. The young lady, in giving an order, or the like
+of that, will say, "Remember, William, we came to this hotel on
+your account, having heard what a perfect waiter you are." The young
+gentleman will tell me that I remind him strongly of his father (the
+gentleman starts at this) and that he expects me to act by him as such.
+(Soothing, sunny cadence.) Oh, very pleasant, sir, very affable and
+pleasant indeed!
+
+THE GENTLEMAN. You like his father! (He laughs at the notion.)
+
+WAITER. Oh, we must not take what they say too seriously, sir. Of
+course, sir, if it were true, the young lady would have seen the
+resemblance, too, sir.
+
+THE GENTLEMAN. Did she?
+
+WAITER. No, sir. She thought me like the bust of Shakespear in Stratford
+Church, sir. That is why she calls me William, sir. My real name is
+Walter, sir. (He turns to go back to the table, and sees Mrs. Clandon
+coming up to the terrace from the beach by the steps.) Here is Mrs.
+Clandon, sir. (To Mrs. Clandon, in an unobtrusively confidential tone)
+Gentleman for you, ma'am.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. We shall have two more gentlemen at lunch, William.
+
+WAITER. Right, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. (He withdraws into the hotel.
+Mrs. Clandon comes forward looking round for her visitor, but passes
+over the gentleman without any sign of recognition.)
+
+THE GENTLEMAN (peering at her quaintly from under the umbrella). Don't
+you know me?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (incredulously, looking hard at him) Are you Finch McComas?
+
+McCOMAS. Can't you guess? (He shuts the umbrella; puts it aside; and
+jocularly plants himself with his hands on his hips to be inspected.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I believe you are. (She gives him her hand. The shake that
+ensues is that of old friends after a long separation.) Where's your
+beard?
+
+McCOMAS (with humorous solemnity). Would you employ a solicitor with a
+beard?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (pointing to the silk hat on the table). Is that your hat?
+
+McCOMAS. Would you employ a solicitor with a sombrero?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I have thought of you all these eighteen years with the
+beard and the sombrero. (She sits down on the garden seat. McComas takes
+his chair again.) Do you go to the meetings of the Dialectical Society
+still?
+
+McCOMAS (gravely). I do not frequent meetings now.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Finch: I see what has happened. You have become
+respectable.
+
+McCOMAS. Haven't you?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Not a bit.
+
+McCOMAS. You hold to your old opinions still?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. As firmly as ever.
+
+McCOMAS. Bless me! And you are still ready to make speeches in public,
+in spite of your sex (Mrs. Clandon nods); to insist on a married
+woman's right to her own separate property (she nods again); to champion
+Darwin's view of the origin of species and John Stuart Mill's essay on
+Liberty (nod); to read Huxley, Tyndall and George Eliot (three nods);
+and to demand University degrees, the opening of the professions, and
+the parliamentary franchise for women as well as men?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (resolutely). Yes: I have not gone back one inch; and I
+have educated Gloria to take up my work where I left it. That is what
+has brought me back to England: I felt that I had no right to bury her
+alive in Madeira--my St. Helena, Finch. I suppose she will be howled at
+as I was; but she is prepared for that.
+
+McCOMAS. Howled at! My dear good lady: there is nothing in any of those
+views now-a-days to prevent her from marrying a bishop. You reproached
+me just now for having become respectable. You were wrong: I hold to
+our old opinions as strongly as ever. I don't go to church; and I don't
+pretend I do. I call myself what I am: a Philosophic Radical, standing
+for liberty and the rights of the individual, as I learnt to do from
+my master Herbert Spencer. Am I howled at? No: I'm indulged as an old
+fogey. I'm out of everything, because I've refused to bow the knee to
+Socialism.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Socialism.
+
+McCOMAS. Yes, Socialism. That's what Miss Gloria will be up to her ears
+in before the end of the month if you let her loose here.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (emphatically). But I can prove to her that Socialism is a
+fallacy.
+
+McCOMAS (touchingly). It is by proving that, Mrs. Clandon, that I have
+lost all my young disciples. Be careful what you do: let her go her own
+way. (With some bitterness.) We're old-fashioned: the world thinks it
+has left us behind. There is only one place in all England where your
+opinions would still pass as advanced.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (scornfully unconvinced). The Church, perhaps?
+
+McCOMAS. No, the theatre. And now to business! Why have you made me come
+down here?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Well, partly because I wanted to see you--
+
+McCOMAS (with good-humored irony). Thanks.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. --and partly because I want you to explain everything
+to the children. They know nothing; and now that we have come back
+to England, it is impossible to leave them in ignorance any longer.
+(Agitated.) Finch: I cannot bring myself to tell them. I-- (She is
+interrupted by the twins and Gloria. Dolly comes tearing up the steps,
+racing Philip, who combines a terrific speed with unhurried propriety of
+bearing which, however, costs him the race, as Dolly reaches her mother
+first and almost upsets the garden seat by the precipitancy of her
+arrival.)
+
+DOLLY (breathless). It's all right, mamma. The dentist is coming; and
+he's bringing his old man.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Dolly, dear: don't you see Mr. McComas? (Mr. McComas
+rises, smilingly.)
+
+DOLLY (her face falling with the most disparagingly obvious
+disappointment). This! Where are the flowing locks?
+
+PHILIP (seconding her warmly). Where the beard?--the cloak?--the poetic
+exterior?
+
+DOLLY. Oh, Mr. McComas, you've gone and spoiled yourself. Why didn't you
+wait till we'd seen you?
+
+McCOMAS (taken aback, but rallying his humor to meet the emergency).
+Because eighteen years is too long for a solicitor to go without having
+his hair cut.
+
+GLORIA (at the other side of McComas). How do you do, Mr. McComas? (He
+turns; and she takes his hand and presses it, with a frank straight look
+into his eyes.) We are glad to meet you at last.
+
+McCOMAS. Miss Gloria, I presume? (Gloria smiles assent, and releases his
+hand after a final pressure. She then retires behind the garden seat,
+leaning over the back beside Mrs. Clandon.) And this young gentleman?
+
+PHILIP. I was christened in a comparatively prosaic mood. My name is--
+
+DOLLY (completing his sentence for him declamatorily). "Norval. On the
+Grampian hills"--
+
+PHILIP (declaiming gravely). "My father feeds his flock, a frugal
+swain"--
+
+MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dear, dear children: don't be silly.
+Everything is so new to them here, Finch, that they are in the wildest
+spirits. They think every Englishman they meet is a joke.
+
+DOLLY. Well, so he is: it's not our fault.
+
+PHILIP. My knowledge of human nature is fairly extensive, Mr. McComas;
+but I find it impossible to take the inhabitants of this island
+seriously.
+
+McCOMAS. I presume, sir, you are Master Philip (offering his hand)?
+
+PHILIP (taking McComas's hand and looking solemnly at him). I was Master
+Philip--was so for many years; just as you were once Master Finch. (He
+gives his hand a single shake and drops it; then turns away, exclaiming
+meditatively) How strange it is to look back on our boyhood! (McComas
+stares after him, not at all pleased.)
+
+DOLLY (to Mrs. Clandon). Has Finch had a drink?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dearest: Mr. McComas will lunch with us.
+
+DOLLY. Have you ordered for seven? Don't forget the old gentleman.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I have not forgotten him, dear. What is his name?
+
+DOLLY. Chalkstones. He'll be here at half past one. (To McComas.) Are we
+like what you expected?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (changing her tone to a more earnest one). Dolly: Mr.
+McComas has something more serious than that to tell you. Children: I
+have asked my old friend to answer the question you asked this morning.
+He is your father's friend as well as mine: and he will tell you the
+story more fairly than I could. (Turning her head from them to Gloria.)
+Gloria: are you satisfied?
+
+GLORIA (gravely attentive). Mr. McComas is very kind.
+
+McCOMAS (nervously). Not at all, my dear young lady: not at all. At the
+same time, this is rather sudden. I was hardly prepared--er--
+
+DOLLY (suspiciously). Oh, we don't want anything prepared.
+
+PHILIP (exhorting him). Tell us the truth.
+
+DOLLY (emphatically). Bald headed.
+
+McCOMAS (nettled). I hope you intend to take what I have to say
+seriously.
+
+PHILIP (with profound mock gravity). I hope it will deserve it, Mr.
+McComas. My knowledge of human nature teaches me not to expect too much.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil--
+
+PHILIP. Yes, mother, all right. I beg your pardon, Mr. McComas: don't
+mind us.
+
+DOLLY (in conciliation). We mean well.
+
+PHILIP. Shut up, both.
+
+(Dolly holds her lips. McComas takes a chair from the luncheon table;
+places it between the little table and the garden seat with Dolly on his
+right and Philip on his left; and settles himself in it with the air
+of a man about to begin a long communication. The Clandons match him
+expectantly.)
+
+McCOMAS. Ahem! Your father--
+
+DOLLY (interrupting). How old is he?
+
+PHILIP. Sh!
+
+MRS. CLANDON (softly). Dear Dolly: don't let us interrupt Mr. McComas.
+
+McCOMAS (emphatically). Thank you, Mrs. Clandon. Thank you. (To Dolly.)
+Your father is fifty-seven.
+
+DOLLY (with a bound, startled and excited). Fifty-seven! Where does he
+live?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Dolly, Dolly!
+
+McCOMAS (stopping her). Let me answer that, Mrs. Clandon. The answer
+will surprise you considerably. He lives in this town. (Mrs.
+Clandon rises. She and Gloria look at one another in the greatest
+consternation.)
+
+DOLLY (with conviction). I knew it! Phil: Chalkstones is our father.
+
+McCOMAS. Chalkstones!
+
+DOLLY. Oh, Crampstones, or whatever it is. He said I was like his
+mother. I knew he must mean his daughter.
+
+PHILIP (very seriously). Mr. McComas: I desire to consider your feelings
+in every possible way: but I warn you that if you stretch the long arm
+of coincidence to the length of telling me that Mr. Crampton of this
+town is my father, I shall decline to entertain the information for a
+moment.
+
+McCOMAS. And pray why?
+
+PHILIP. Because I have seen the gentleman; and he is entirely unfit
+to be my father, or Dolly's father, or Gloria's father, or my mother's
+husband.
+
+McCOMAS. Oh, indeed! Well, sir, let me tell you that whether you like it
+or not, he is your father, and your sister' father, and Mrs. Clandon's
+husband. Now! What have you to say to that!
+
+DOLLY (whimpering). You needn't be so cross. Crampton isn't your father.
+
+PHILIP. Mr. McComas: your conduct is heartless. Here you find a family
+enjoying the unspeakable peace and freedom of being orphans. We have
+never seen the face of a relative--never known a claim except the claim
+of freely chosen friendship. And now you wish to thrust into the most
+intimate relationship with us a man whom we don't know--
+
+DOLLY (vehemently). An awful old man! (reproachfully) And you began as
+if you had quite a nice father for us.
+
+McCOMAS (angrily). How do you know that he is not nice? And what right
+have you to choose your own father? (raising his voice.) Let me tell
+you, Miss Clandon, that you are too young to--
+
+DOLLY (interrupting him suddenly and eagerly). Stop, I forgot! Has he
+any money?
+
+McCOMAS. He has a great deal of money.
+
+DOLLY (delighted). Oh, what did I always say, Phil?
+
+PHILIP. Dolly: we have perhaps been condemning the old man too hastily.
+Proceed, Mr. McComas.
+
+McCOMAS. I shall not proceed, sir. I am too hurt, too shocked, to
+proceed.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (urgently). Finch: do you realize what is happening? Do you
+understand that my children have invited that man to lunch, and that he
+will be here in a few moments?
+
+McCOMAS (completely upset). What! do you mean--am I to understand--is
+it--
+
+PHILIP (impressively). Steady, Finch. Think it out slowly and carefully.
+He's coming--coming to lunch.
+
+GLORIA. Which of us is to tell him the truth? Have you thought of that?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Finch: you must tell him.
+
+DOLLY Oh, Finch is no good at telling things. Look at the mess he has
+made of telling us.
+
+McCOMAS. I have not been allowed to speak. I protest against this.
+
+DOLLY (taking his arm coaxingly). Dear Finch: don't be cross.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Gloria: let us go in. He may arrive at any moment.
+
+GLORIA (proudly). Do not stir, mother. I shall not stir. We must not run
+away.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (delicately rebuking her). My dear: we cannot sit down to
+lunch just as we are. We shall come back again. We must have no bravado.
+(Gloria winces, and goes into the hotel without a word.) Come, Dolly.
+(As she goes into the hotel door, the waiter comes out with plates,
+etc., for two additional covers on a tray.)
+
+WAITER. Gentlemen come yet, ma'am?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Two more to come yet, thank you. They will be here,
+immediately. (She goes into the hotel. The waiter takes his tray to the
+service table.)
+
+PHILIP. I have an idea. Mr. McComas: this communication should be made,
+should it not, by a man of infinite tact?
+
+McCOMAS. It will require tact, certainly.
+
+PHILIP Good! Dolly: whose tact were you noticing only this morning?
+
+DOLLY (seizing the idea with rapture). Oh, yes, I declare! William!
+
+PHILIP. The very man! (Calling) William!
+
+WAITER. Coming, sir.
+
+McCOMAS (horrified). The waiter! Stop, stop! I will not permit this. I--
+
+WAITER (presenting himself between Philip and McComas). Yes, sir.
+(McComas's complexion fades into stone grey; and all movement and
+expression desert his eyes. He sits down stupefied.)
+
+PHILIP. William: you remember my request to you to regard me as your
+son?
+
+WAITER (with respectful indulgence). Yes, sir. Anything you please, sir.
+
+PHILIP. William: at the very outset of your career as my father, a rival
+has appeared on the scene.
+
+WAITER. Your real father, sir? Well, that was to be expected, sooner or
+later, sir, wasn't it? (Turning with a happy smile to McComas.) Is it
+you, sir?
+
+McCOMAS (renerved by indignation). Certainly not. My children know how
+to behave themselves.
+
+PHILIP. No, William: this gentleman was very nearly my father: he wooed
+my mother, but wooed her in vain.
+
+McCOMAS (outraged). Well, of all the--
+
+PHILIP. Sh! Consequently, he is only our solicitor. Do you know one
+Crampton, of this town?
+
+WAITER. Cock-eyed Crampton, sir, of the Crooked Billet, is it?
+
+PHILIP. I don't know. Finch: does he keep a public house?
+
+McCOMAS (rising scandalized). No, no, no. Your father, sir, is a
+well-known yacht builder, an eminent man here.
+
+WAITER (impressed). Oh, beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. A son of Mr.
+Crampton's! Dear me!
+
+PHILIP. Mr. Crampton is coming to lunch with us.
+
+WAITER (puzzled). Yes, sir. (Diplomatically.) Don't usually lunch with
+his family, perhaps, sir?
+
+PHILIP (impressively). William: he does not know that we are his family.
+He has not seen us for eighteen years. He won't know us. (To emphasize
+the communication he seats himself on the iron table with a spring, and
+looks at the waiter with his lips compressed and his legs swinging.)
+
+DOLLY. We want you to break the news to him, William.
+
+WAITER. But I should think he'd guess when he sees your mother, miss.
+(Philip's legs become motionless at this elucidation. He contemplates
+the waiter raptly.)
+
+DOLLY (dazzled). I never thought of that.
+
+PHILIP. Nor I. (Coming off the table and turning reproachfully on
+McComas.) Nor you.
+
+DOLLY. And you a solicitor!
+
+PHILIP. Finch: Your professional incompetence is appalling. William:
+your sagacity puts us all to shame.
+
+DOLLY You really are like Shakespear, William.
+
+WAITER. Not at all, sir. Don't mention it, miss. Most happy, I'm
+sure, sir. (Goes back modestly to the luncheon table and lays the two
+additional covers, one at the end next the steps, and the other so as to
+make a third on the side furthest from the balustrade.)
+
+PHILIP (abruptly). Finch: come and wash your hands. (Seizes his arm and
+leads him toward the hotel.)
+
+McCOMAS. I am thoroughly vexed and hurt, Mr. Clandon--
+
+PHILIP (interrupting him). You will get used to us. Come, Dolly.
+(McComas shakes him off and marches into the hotel. Philip follows with
+unruffled composure.)
+
+DOLLY (turning for a moment on the steps as she follows them). Keep your
+wits about you, William. There will be fire-works.
+
+WAITER. Right, miss. You may depend on me, miss. (She goes into the
+hotel.)
+
+(Valentine comes lightly up the steps from the beach, followed doggedly
+by Crampton. Valentine carries a walking stick. Crampton, either
+because he is old and chilly, or with some idea of extenuating the
+unfashionableness of his reefer jacket, wears a light overcoat. He stops
+at the chair left by McComas in the middle of the terrace, and steadies
+himself for a moment by placing his hand on the back of it.)
+
+CRAMPTON. Those steps make me giddy. (He passes his hand over his
+forehead.) I have not got over that infernal gas yet.
+
+(He goes to the iron chair, so that he can lean his elbows on the little
+table to prop his head as he sits. He soon recovers, and begins to
+unbutton his overcoat. Meanwhile Valentine interviews the waiter.)
+
+VALENTINE. Waiter!
+
+WAITER (coming forward between them). Yes, sir.
+
+VALENTINE. Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon.
+
+WAITER (with a sweet smile of welcome). Yes, sir. We're expecting you,
+sir. That is your table, sir. Mrs. Clandon will be down presently, sir.
+The young lady and young gentleman were just talking about your friend,
+sir.
+
+VALENTINE. Indeed!
+
+WAITER (smoothly melodious). Yes, sire. Great flow of spirits, sir. A
+vein of pleasantry, as you might say, sir. (Quickly, to Crampton, who
+has risen to get the overcoat off.) Beg pardon, sir, but if you'll allow
+me (helping him to get the overcoat off and taking it from him). Thank
+you, sir. (Crampton sits down again; and the waiter resumes the broken
+melody.) The young gentleman's latest is that you're his father, sir.
+
+CRAMPTON. What!
+
+WAITER. Only his joke, sir, his favourite joke. Yesterday, I was to be
+his father. To-day, as soon as he knew you were coming, sir, he tried to
+put it up on me that you were his father, his long lost father--not seen
+you for eighteen years, he said.
+
+CRAMPTON (startled). Eighteen years!
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir. (With gentle archness.) But I was up to his tricks,
+sir. I saw the idea coming into his head as he stood there, thinking
+what new joke he'd have with me. Yes, sir: that's the sort he is: very
+pleasant, ve--ry off hand and affable indeed, sir. (Again changing his
+tempo to say to Valentine, who is putting his stick down against the
+corner of the garden seat) If you'll allow me, sir? (Taking Valentine's
+stick.) Thank you, sir. (Valentine strolls up to the luncheon table and
+looks at the menu. The waiter turns to Crampton and resumes his lay.)
+Even the solicitor took up the joke, although he was in a manner of
+speaking in my confidence about the young gentleman, sir. Yes, sir, I
+assure you, sir. You would never imagine what respectable professional
+gentlemen from London will do on an outing, when the sea air takes them,
+sir.
+
+CRAMPTON. Oh, there's a solicitor with them, is there?
+
+WAITER. The family solicitor, sir--yes, sir. Name of McComas, sir. (He
+goes towards hotel entrance with coat and stick, happily unconscious of
+the bomblike effect the name has produced on Crampton.)
+
+CRAMPTON (rising in angry alarm). McComas! (Calls to Valentine.)
+Valentine! (Again, fiercely.) Valentine!! (Valentine turns.) This is a
+plant, a conspiracy. This is my family--my children--my infernal wife.
+
+VALENTINE (coolly). On, indeed! Interesting meeting! (He resumes his
+study of the menu.)
+
+CRAMPTON. Meeting! Not for me. Let me out of this. (Calling to the
+waiter.) Give me that coat.
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir. (He comes back, puts Valentine's stick carefully down
+against the luncheon table; and delicately shakes the coat out and holds
+it for Crampton to put on.) I seem to have done the young gentleman an
+injustice, sir, haven't I, sir.
+
+CRAMPTON. Rrrh! (He stops on the point of putting his arms into the
+sleeves, and turns to Valentine with sudden suspicion.) Valentine: you
+are in this. You made this plot. You--
+
+VALENTINE (decisively). Bosh! (He throws the menu down and goes round
+the table to look out unconcernedly over the parapet.)
+
+CRAMPTON (angrily). What d'ye-- (McComas, followed by Philip and Dolly,
+comes out. He vacillates for a moment on seeing Crampton.)
+
+WAITER (softly--interrupting Crampton). Steady, sir. Here they come,
+sir. (He takes up the stick and makes for the hotel, throwing the coat
+across his arm. McComas turns the corners of his mouth resolutely down
+and crosses to Crampton, who draws back and glares, with his hands
+behind him. McComas, with his brow opener than ever, confronts him in
+the majesty of a spotless conscience.)
+
+WAITER (aside, as he passes Philip on his way out). I've broke it to
+him, sir.
+
+PHILIP. Invaluable William! (He passes on to the table.)
+
+DOLLY (aside to the waiter). How did he take it?
+
+WAITER (aside to her). Startled at first, miss; but resigned--very
+resigned, indeed, miss. (He takes the stick and coat into the hotel.)
+
+McCOMAS (having stared Crampton out of countenance). So here you are,
+Mr. Crampton.
+
+CRAMPTON. Yes, here--caught in a trap--a mean trap. Are those my
+children?
+
+PHILIP (with deadly politeness). Is this our father, Mr. McComas?
+
+McCOMAS. Yes--er-- (He loses countenance himself and stops.)
+
+DOLLY (conventionally). Pleased to meet you again. (She wanders
+idly round the table, exchanging a smile and a word of greeting with
+Valentine on the way.)
+
+PHILIP. Allow me to discharge my first duty as host by ordering your
+wine. (He takes the wine list from the table. His polite attention, and
+Dolly's unconcerned indifference, leave Crampton on the footing of
+the casual acquaintance picked up that morning at the dentist's. The
+consciousness of it goes through the father with so keen a pang that
+he trembles all over; his brow becomes wet; and he stares dumbly at
+his son, who, just conscious enough of his own callousness to intensely
+enjoy the humor and adroitness of it, proceeds pleasantly.) Finch: some
+crusted old port for you, as a respectable family solicitor, eh?
+
+McCOMAS (firmly). Apollinaris only. I prefer to take nothing heating.
+(He walks away to the side of the terrace, like a man putting temptation
+behind him.)
+
+PHILIP. Valentine--?
+
+VALENTINE. Would Lager be considered vulgar?
+
+PHILIP. Probably. We'll order some. Dolly takes it. (Turning to Crampton
+with cheerful politeness.) And now, Mr. Crampton, what can we do for
+you?
+
+CRAMPTON. What d'ye mean, boy?
+
+PHILIP. Boy! (Very solemnly.) Whose fault is it that I am a boy?
+
+(Crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely
+pretends to read it. Philip abandons it to him with perfect politeness.)
+
+DOLLY (looking over Crampton's right shoulder). The whisky's on the last
+page but one.
+
+CRAMPTON. Let me alone, child.
+
+DOLLY. Child! No, no: you may call me Dolly if you like; but you mustn't
+call me child. (She slips her arm through Philip's; and the two stand
+looking at Crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger.)
+
+CRAMPTON (mopping his brow in rage and agony, and yet relieved even by
+their playing with him). McComas: we are--ha!--going to have a pleasant
+meal.
+
+McCOMAS (pusillanimously). There is no reason why it should not be
+pleasant. (He looks abjectly gloomy.)
+
+PHILIP. Finch's face is a feast in itself. (Mrs. Clandon and Gloria come
+from the hotel. Mrs. Clandon advances with courageous self-possession
+and marked dignity of manner. She stops at the foot of the steps to
+address Valentine, who is in her path. Gloria also stops, looking at
+Crampton with a certain repulsion.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Glad to see you again, Mr. Valentine. (He smiles. She
+passes on and confronts Crampton, intending to address him with perfect
+composure; but his aspect shakes her. She stops suddenly and says
+anxiously, with a touch of remorse.) Fergus: you are greatly changed.
+
+CRAMPTON (grimly). I daresay. A man does change in eighteen years.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (troubled). I--I did not mean that. I hope your health is
+good.
+
+CRAMPTON. Thank you. No: it's not my health. It's my happiness: that's
+the change you meant, I think. (Breaking out suddenly.) Look at her,
+McComas! Look at her; and look at me! (He utters a half laugh, half
+sob.)
+
+PHILIP. Sh! (Pointing to the hotel entrance, where the waiter has just
+appeared.) Order before William!
+
+DOLLY (touching Crampton's arm warningly with her finger). Ahem! (The
+waiter goes to the service table and beckons to the kitchen entrance,
+whence issue a young waiter with soup plates, and a cook, in white apron
+and cap, with the soup tureen. The young waiter remains and serves: the
+cook goes out, and reappears from time to time bringing in the courses.
+He carves, but does not serve. The waiter comes to the end of the
+luncheon table next the steps.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (as they all assemble about the table). I think you have
+all met one another already to-day. Oh, no, excuse me. (Introducing) Mr.
+Valentine: Mr. McComas. (She goes to the end of the table nearest the
+hotel.) Fergus: will you take the head of the table, please.
+
+CRAMPTON. Ha! (Bitterly.) The head of the table!
+
+WAITER (holding the chair for him with inoffensive encouragement). This
+end, sir. (Crampton submits, and takes his seat.) Thank you, sir.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Mr. Valentine: will you take that side (indicating the
+side nearest the parapet) with Gloria? (Valentine and Gloria take their
+places, Gloria next Crampton and Valentine next Mrs. Clandon.) Finch:
+I must put you on this side, between Dolly and Phil. You must protect
+yourself as best you can. (The three take the remaining side of the
+table, Dolly next her mother, Phil next his father, and McComas between
+them. Soup is served.)
+
+WAITER (to Crampton). Thick or clear, sir?
+
+CRAMPTON (to Mrs. Clandon). Does nobody ask a blessing in this
+household?
+
+PHILIP (interposing smartly). Let us first settle what we are about to
+receive. William!
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir. (He glides swiftly round the table to Phil's left
+elbow. On his way he whispers to the young waiter) Thick.
+
+PHILIP. Two small Lagers for the children as usual, William; and one
+large for this gentleman (indicating Valentine). Large Apollinaris for
+Mr. McComas.
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir.
+
+DOLLY. Have a six of Irish in it, Finch?
+
+McCOMAS (scandalized). No--no, thank you.
+
+PHILIP. Number 413 for my mother and Miss Gloria as before; and--
+(turning enquiringly to Crampton) Eh?
+
+CRAMPTON (scowling and about to reply offensively). I--
+
+WAITER (striking in mellifluously). All right, sir. We know what Mr.
+Crampton likes here, sir. (He goes into the hotel.)
+
+PHILIP (looking gravely at his father). You frequent bars. Bad habit!
+(The cook, accompanied by a waiter with a supply of hot plates, brings
+in the fish from the kitchen to the service table, and begins slicing
+it.)
+
+CRAMPTON. You have learnt your lesson from your mother, I see.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Phil: will you please remember that your jokes are apt to
+irritate people who are not accustomed to us, and that your father is
+our guest to-day.
+
+CRAMPTON (bitterly). Yes, a guest at the head of my own table. (The soup
+plates are removed.)
+
+DOLLY (sympathetically). Yes: it's embarrassing, isn't it? It's just as
+bad for us, you know.
+
+PHILIP. Sh! Dolly: we are both wanting in tact. (To Crampton.) We mean
+well, Mr. Crampton; but we are not yet strong in the filial line.
+(The waiter returns from the hotel with the drinks.) William: come and
+restore good feeling.
+
+WAITER (cheerfully). Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Small Lager for you, sir.
+(To Crampton.) Seltzer and Irish, sir. (To McComas.) Apollinaris, sir.
+(To Dolly.) Small Lager, miss. (To Mrs. Clandon, pouring out wine.) 413,
+madam. (To Valentine.) Large Lager for you, sir. (To Gloria.) 413, miss.
+
+DOLLY (drinking). To the family!
+
+PHILIP. (drinking). Hearth and Home! (Fish is served.)
+
+McCOMAS (with an obviously forced attempt at cheerful domesticity). We
+are getting on very nicely after all.
+
+DOLLY (critically). After all! After all what, Finch?
+
+CRAMPTON (sarcastically). He means that you are getting on very nicely
+in spite of the presence of your father. Do I take your point rightly,
+Mr. McComas?
+
+McCOMAS (disconcerted). No, no. I only said "after all" to round off the
+sentence. I--er--er--er---
+
+WAITER (tactfully). Turbot, sir?
+
+McCOMAS (intensely grateful for the interruption). Thank you, waiter:
+thank you.
+
+WAITER (sotto voce). Don't mention it, sir. (He returns to the service
+table.)
+
+CRAMPTON (to Phil). Have you thought of choosing a profession yet?
+
+PHILIP. I am keeping my mind open on that subject. William!
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir.
+
+PHILIP. How long do you think it would take me to learn to be a really
+smart waiter?
+
+WAITER. Can't be learnt, sir. It's in the character, sir.
+(Confidentially to Valentine, who is looking about for something.) Bread
+for the lady, sir? yes, sir. (He serves bread to Gloria, and resumes at
+his former pitch.) Very few are born to it, sir.
+
+PHILIP. You don't happen to have such a thing as a son, yourself, have
+you?
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir: oh, yes, sir. (To Gloria, again dropping his voice.)
+A little more fish, miss? you won't care for the joint in the middle of
+the day.
+
+GLORIA. No, thank you. (The fish plates are removed.)
+
+DOLLY. Is your son a waiter, too, William?
+
+WAITER (serving Gloria with fowl). Oh, no, miss, he's too impetuous.
+He's at the Bar.
+
+McCOMAS (patronizingly). A potman, eh?
+
+WAITER (with a touch of melancholy, as if recalling a disappointment
+softened by time). No, sir: the other bar--your profession, sir. A Q.C.,
+sir.
+
+McCOMAS (embarrassed). I'm sure I beg your pardon.
+
+WAITER. Not at all, sir. Very natural mistake, I'm sure, sir. I've often
+wished he was a potman, sir. Would have been off my hands ever so much
+sooner, sir. (Aside to Valentine, who is again in difficulties.) Salt at
+your elbow, sir. (Resuming.) Yes, sir: had to support him until he was
+thirty-seven, sir. But doing well now, sir: very satisfactory indeed,
+sir. Nothing less than fifty guineas, sir.
+
+McCOMAS. Democracy, Crampton!--modern democracy!
+
+WAITER (calmly). No, sir, not democracy: only education, sir.
+Scholarships, sir. Cambridge Local, sir. Sidney Sussex College, sir.
+(Dolly plucks his sleeve and whispers as he bends down.) Stone ginger,
+miss? Right, miss. (To McComas.) Very good thing for him, sir: he never
+had any turn for real work, sir. (He goes into the hotel, leaving the
+company somewhat overwhelmed by his son's eminence.)
+
+VALENTINE. Which of us dare give that man an order again!
+
+DOLLY. I hope he won't mind my sending him for ginger-beer.
+
+CRAMPTON (doggedly). While he's a waiter it's his business to wait. If
+you had treated him as a waiter ought to be treated, he'd have held his
+tongue.
+
+DOLLY. What a loss that would have been! Perhaps he'll give us an
+introduction to his son and get us into London society. (The waiter
+reappears with the ginger-beer.)
+
+CRAMPTON (growling contemptuously). London society! London society!!
+You're not fit for any society, child.
+
+DOLLY (losing her temper). Now look here, Mr. Crampton. If you think--
+
+WAITER (softly, at her elbow). Stone ginger, miss.
+
+DOLLY (taken aback, recovers her good humor after a long breath and says
+sweetly). Thank you, dear William. You were just in time. (She drinks.)
+
+McCOMAS (making a fresh effort to lead the conversation into
+dispassionate regions). If I may be allowed to change the subject, Miss
+Clandon, what is the established religion in Madeira?
+
+GLORIA. I suppose the Portuguese religion. I never inquired.
+
+DOLLY. The servants come in Lent and kneel down before you and confess
+all the things they've done: and you have to pretend to forgive them. Do
+they do that in England, William?
+
+WAITER. Not usually, miss. They may in some parts: but it has not come
+under my notice, miss. (Catching Mrs. Clandon's eye as the young waiter
+offers her the salad bowl.) You like it without dressing, ma'am: yes,
+ma'am, I have some for you. (To his young colleague, motioning him to
+serve Gloria.) This side, Jo. (He takes a special portion of salad from
+the service table and puts it beside Mrs. Clandon's plate. In doing so
+he observes that Dolly is making a wry face.) Only a bit of watercress,
+miss, got in by mistake. (He takes her salad away.) Thank you, miss.
+(To the young waiter, admonishing him to serve Dolly afresh.) Jo.
+(Resuming.) Mostly members of the Church of England, miss.
+
+DOLLY. Members of the Church of England! What's the subscription?
+
+CRAMPTON (rising violently amid general consternation). You see how my
+children have been brought up, McComas. You see it; you hear it. I call
+all of you to witness-- (He becomes inarticulate, and is about to strike
+his fist recklessly on the table when the waiter considerately takes
+away his plate.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (firmly). Sit down, Fergus. There is no occasion at all
+for this outburst. You must remember that Dolly is just like a foreigner
+here. Pray sit down.
+
+CRAMPTON (subsiding unwillingly). I doubt whether I ought to sit here
+and countenance all this. I doubt it.
+
+WAITER. Cheese, sir; or would you like a cold sweet?
+
+CRAMPTON (take aback). What? Oh!--cheese, cheese.
+
+DOLLY. Bring a box of cigarettes, William.
+
+WAITER. All ready, miss. (He takes a box of cigarettes from the service
+table and places them before Dolly, who selects one and prepares to
+smoke. He then returns to his table for a box of vestas.)
+
+CRAMPTON (staring aghast at Dolly). Does she smoke?
+
+DOLLY (out of patience). Really, Mr. Crampton, I'm afraid I'm spoiling
+your lunch. I'll go and have my cigarette on the beach. (She leaves
+the table with petulant suddenness and goes down the steps. The waiter
+attempts to give her the matches; but she is gone before he can reach
+her.)
+
+CRAMPTON (furiously). Margaret: call that girl back. Call her back, I
+say.
+
+McCOMAS (trying to make peace). Come, Crampton: never mind. She's her
+father's daughter: that's all.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (with deep resentment). I hope not, Finch. (She rises: they
+all rise a little.) Mr. Valentine: will you excuse me: I am afraid Dolly
+is hurt and put out by what has passed. I must go to her.
+
+CRAMPTON. To take her part against me, you mean.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (ignoring him). Gloria: will you take my place whilst I am
+away, dear. (She crosses to the steps. Crampton's eyes follow her with
+bitter hatred. The rest watch her in embarrassed silence, feeling the
+incident to be a very painful one.)
+
+WAITER (intercepting her at the top of the steps and offering her a box
+of vestas). Young lady forgot the matches, ma'am. If you would be so
+good, ma'am.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (surprised into grateful politeness by the witchery of his
+sweet and cheerful tones). Thank you very much. (She takes the matches
+and goes down to the beach. The waiter shepherds his assistant along
+with him into the hotel by the kitchen entrance, leaving the luncheon
+party to themselves.)
+
+CRAMPTON (throwing himself back in his chair). There's a mother for you,
+McComas! There's a mother for you!
+
+GLORIA (steadfastly). Yes: a good mother.
+
+CRAMPTON. And a bad father? That's what you mean, eh?
+
+VALENTINE (rising indignantly and addressing Gloria). Miss Clandon: I--
+
+CRAMPTON (turning on him). That girl's name is Crampton, Mr. Valentine,
+not Clandon. Do you wish to join them in insulting me?
+
+VALENTINE (ignoring him). I'm overwhelmed, Miss Clandon. It's all my
+fault: I brought him here: I'm responsible for him. And I'm ashamed of
+him.
+
+CRAMPTON. What d'y' mean?
+
+GLORIA (rising coldly). No harm has been done, Mr. Valentine. We have
+all been a little childish, I am afraid. Our party has been a failure:
+let us break it up and have done with it. (She puts her chair aside
+and turns to the steps, adding, with slighting composure, as she passes
+Crampton.) Good-bye, father.
+
+(She descends the steps with cold, disgusted indifference. They all look
+after her, and so do not notice the return of the waiter from the hotel,
+laden with Crampton's coat, Valentine's stick, a couple of shawls and
+parasols, a white canvas umbrella, and some camp stools.)
+
+CRAMPTON (to himself, staring after Gloria with a ghastly expression).
+Father! Father!! (He strikes his fist violently on the table.) Now--
+
+WAITER (offering the coat). This is yours, sir, I think, sir. (Crampton
+glares at him; then snatches it rudely and comes down the terrace
+towards the garden seat, struggling with the coat in his angry efforts
+to put it on. McComas rises and goes to his assistance; then takes
+his hat and umbrella from the little iron table, and turns towards the
+steps. Meanwhile the waiter, after thanking Crampton with unruffled
+sweetness for taking the coat, offers some of his burden to Phil.) The
+ladies' sunshades, sir. Nasty glare off the sea to-day, sir: very trying
+to the complexion, sir. I shall carry down the camp stools myself, sir.
+
+PHILIP. You are old, Father William; but you are the most considerate of
+men. No: keep the sunshades and give me the camp stools (taking them).
+
+WAITER (with flattering gratitude). Thank you, sir.
+
+PHILIP. Finch: share with me (giving him a couple). Come along. (They go
+down the steps together.)
+
+VALENTINE (to the waiter). Leave me something to bring down--one of
+these. (Offering to take a sunshade.)
+
+WAITER (discreetly). That's the younger lady's, sir. (Valentine lets
+it go.) Thank you, sir. If you'll allow me, sir, I think you had better
+have this. (He puts down the sunshades on Crampton's chair, and
+produces from the tail pocket of his dress coat, a book with a lady's
+handkerchief between the leaves, marking the page.) The eldest young
+lady is reading it at present. (Valentine takes it eagerly.) Thank you,
+sir. Schopenhauer, sir, you see. (He takes up the sunshades again.) Very
+interesting author, sir: especially on the subject of ladies, sir. (He
+goes down the steps. Valentine, about to follow him, recollects Crampton
+and changes his mind.)
+
+VALENTINE (coming rather excitedly to Crampton). Now look here,
+Crampton: are you at all ashamed of yourself?
+
+CRAMPTON (pugnaciously). Ashamed of myself! What for?
+
+VALENTINE. For behaving like a bear. What will your daughter think of me
+for having brought you here?
+
+CRAMPTON. I was not thinking of what my daughter was thinking of you.
+
+VALENTINE. No, you were thinking of yourself. You're a perfect maniac.
+
+CRAMPTON (heartrent). She told you what I am--a father--a father robbed
+of his children. What are the hearts of this generation like? Am I to
+come here after all these years--to see what my children are for
+the first time! to hear their voices!--and carry it all off like a
+fashionable visitor; drop in to lunch; be Mr. Crampton--M i s t e
+r Crampton! What right have they to talk to me like that? I'm their
+father: do they deny that? I'm a man, with the feelings of our common
+humanity: have I no rights, no claims? In all these years who have I
+had round me? Servants, clerks, business acquaintances. I've had respect
+from them--aye, kindness. Would one of them have spoken to me as that
+girl spoke?--would one of them have laughed at me as that boy was
+laughing at me all the time? (Frantically.) My own children! M i s t e r
+Crampton! My--
+
+VALENTINE. Come, come: they're only children. The only one of them
+that's worth anything called you father.
+
+CRAMPTON (wildly). Yes: "good-bye, father." Oh, yes: she got at my
+feelings--with a stab!
+
+VALENTINE (taking this in very bad part). Now look here, Crampton: you
+just let her alone: she's treated you very well. I had a much worse time
+of it at lunch than you.
+
+CRAMPTON. You!
+
+VALENTINE (with growing impetuosity). Yes: I. I sat next to her; and
+I never said a single thing to her the whole time--couldn't think of a
+blessed word. And not a word did she say to me.
+
+CRAMPTON. Well?
+
+VALENTINE. Well? Well??? (Tackling him very seriously and talking
+faster and faster.) Crampton: do you know what's been the matter with me
+to-day? You don't suppose, do you, that I'm in the habit of playing such
+tricks on my patients as I played on you?
+
+CRAMPTON. I hope not.
+
+VALENTINE. The explanation is that I'm stark mad, or rather that I've
+never been in my real senses before. I'm capable of anything: I've grown
+up at last: I'm a Man; and it's your daughter that's made a man of me.
+
+CRAMPTON (incredulously). Are you in love with my daughter?
+
+VALENTINE (his words now coming in a perfect torrent). Love! Nonsense:
+it's something far above and beyond that. It's life, it's faith, it's
+strength, certainty, paradise--
+
+CRAMPTON (interrupting him with acrid contempt). Rubbish, man! What have
+you to keep a wife on? You can't marry her.
+
+VALENTINE. Who wants to marry her? I'll kiss her hands; I'll kneel at
+her feet; I'll live for her; I'll die for her; and that'll be enough for
+me. Look at her book! See! (He kisses the handkerchief.) If you offered
+me all your money for this excuse for going down to the beach and
+speaking to her again, I'd only laugh at you. (He rushes buoyantly off
+to the steps, where he bounces right into the arms of the waiter, who
+is coming up form the beach. The two save themselves from falling by
+clutching one another tightly round the waist and whirling one another
+around.)
+
+WAITER (delicately). Steady, sir, steady.
+
+VALENTINE (shocked at his own violence). I beg your pardon.
+
+WAITER. Not at all, sir, not at all. Very natural, sir, I'm sure, sir,
+at your age. The lady has sent me for her book, sir. Might I take the
+liberty of asking you to let her have it at once, sir?
+
+VALENTINE. With pleasure. And if you will allow me to present you with a
+professional man's earnings for six weeks-- (offering him Dolly's crown
+piece.)
+
+WAITER (as if the sum were beyond his utmost expectations). Thank you,
+sir: much obliged. (Valentine dashes down the steps.) Very high-spirited
+young gentleman, sir: very manly and straight set up.
+
+CRAMPTON (in grumbling disparagement). And making his fortune in a
+hurry, no doubt. I know what his six weeks' earnings come to. (He
+crosses the terrace to the iron table, and sits down.)
+
+WAITER (philosophically). Well, sir, you never can tell. That's a
+principle in life with me, sir, if you'll excuse my having such a thing,
+sir. (Delicately sinking the philosopher in the waiter for a moment.)
+Perhaps you haven't noticed that you hadn't touched that seltzer and
+Irish, sir, when the party broke up. (He takes the tumbler from the
+luncheon table, and sets if before Crampton.) Yes, sir, you never can
+tell. There was my son, sir! who ever thought that he would rise to wear
+a silk gown, sir? And yet to-day, sir, nothing less than fifty guineas,
+sir. What a lesson, sir!
+
+CRAMPTON. Well, I hope he is grateful to you, and recognizes what he
+owes you.
+
+WAITER. We get on together very well, very well indeed, sir, considering
+the difference in our stations. (With another of his irresistible
+transitions.) A small lump of sugar, sir, will take the flatness out of
+the seltzer without noticeably sweetening the drink, sir. Allow me,
+sir. (He drops a lump of sugar into the tumbler.) But as I say to him,
+where's the difference after all? If I must put on a dress coat to show
+what I am, sir, he must put on a wig and gown to show what he is. If
+my income is mostly tips, and there's a pretence that I don't get them,
+why, his income is mostly fees, sir; and I understand there's a pretence
+that he don't get them! If he likes society, and his profession brings
+him into contact with all ranks, so does mine, too, sir. If it's a
+little against a barrister to have a waiter for his father, sir, it's
+a little against a waiter to have a barrister for a son: many people
+consider it a great liberty, sir, I assure you, sir. Can I get you
+anything else, sir?
+
+CRAMPTON. No, thank you. (With bitter humility.) I suppose that's no
+objection to my sitting here for a while: I can't disturb the party on
+the beach here.
+
+WAITER (with emotion). Very kind of you, sir, to put it as if it was not
+a compliment and an honour to us, Mr. Crampton, very kind indeed. The
+more you are at home here, sir, the better for us.
+
+CRAMPTON (in poignant irony). Home!
+
+WAITER (reflectively). Well, yes, sir: that's a way of looking at it,
+too, sir. I have always said that the great advantage of a hotel is that
+it's a refuge from home life, sir.
+
+CRAMPTON. I missed that advantage to-day, I think.
+
+WAITER. You did, sir, you did. Dear me! It's the unexpected that always
+happens, isn't it? (Shaking his head.) You never can tell, sir: you
+never can tell. (He goes into the hotel.)
+
+CRAMPTON (his eyes shining hardly as he props his drawn, miserable face
+on his hands). Home! Home!! (He drops his arms on the table and bows his
+head on them, but presently hears someone approaching and hastily sits
+bolt upright. It is Gloria, who has come up the steps alone, with her
+sunshade and her book in her hands. He looks defiantly at her, with
+the brutal obstinacy of his mouth and the wistfulness of his eyes
+contradicting each other pathetically. She comes to the corner of the
+garden seat and stands with her back to it, leaning against the end of
+it, and looking down at him as if wondering at his weakness: too curious
+about him to be cold, but supremely indifferent to their kinship.) Well?
+
+GLORIA. I want to speak with you for a moment.
+
+CRAMPTON (looking steadily at her). Indeed? That's surprising. You meet
+your father after eighteen years; and you actually want to speak to
+him for a moment! That's touching: isn't it? (He rests his head on his
+hands, and looks down and away from her, in gloomy reflection.)
+
+GLORIA. All that is what seems to me so nonsensical, so uncalled for.
+What do you expect us to feel for you--to do for you? What is it you
+want? Why are you less civil to us than other people are? You are
+evidently not very fond of us--why should you be? But surely we can meet
+without quarrelling.
+
+CRAMPTON (a dreadful grey shade passing over his face). Do you realize
+that I am your father?
+
+GLORIA. Perfectly.
+
+CRAMPTON. Do you know what is due to me as your father?
+
+GLORIA. For instance---?
+
+CRAMPTON (rising as if to combat a monster). For instance! For
+instance!! For instance, duty, affection, respect, obedience--
+
+GLORIA (quitting her careless leaning attitude and confronting him
+promptly and proudly). I obey nothing but my sense of what is right.
+I respect nothing that is not noble. That is my duty. (She adds, less
+firmly) As to affection, it is not within my control. I am not sure
+that I quite know what affection means. (She turns away with an evident
+distaste for that part of the subject, and goes to the luncheon table
+for a comfortable chair, putting down her book and sunshade.)
+
+CRAMPTON (following her with his eyes). Do you really mean what you are
+saying?
+
+GLORIA (turning on him quickly and severely). Excuse me: that is an
+uncivil question. I am speaking seriously to you; and I expect you to
+take me seriously. (She takes one of the luncheon chairs; turns it away
+from the table; and sits down a little wearily, saying) Can you not
+discuss this matter coolly and rationally?
+
+CRAMPTON. Coolly and rationally! No, I can't. Do you understand that? I
+can't.
+
+GLORIA (emphatically). No. That I c a n n o t understand. I have no
+sympathy with--
+
+CRAMPTON (shrinking nervously). Stop! Don't say anything more yet; you
+don't know what you're doing. Do you want to drive me mad? (She frowns,
+finding such petulance intolerable. He adds hastily) No: I'm not angry:
+indeed I'm not. Wait, wait: give me a little time to think. (He
+stands for a moment, screwing and clinching his brows and hands in his
+perplexity; then takes the end chair from the luncheon table and
+sits down beside her, saying, with a touching effort to be gentle and
+patient) Now, I think I have it. At least I'll try.
+
+GLORIA (firmly). You see! Everything comes right if we only think it
+resolutely out.
+
+CRAMPTON (in sudden dread). No: don't think. I want you to feel: that's
+the only thing that can help us. Listen! Do you--but first--I forgot.
+What's your name? I mean you pet name. They can't very well call you
+Sophronia.
+
+GLORIA (with astonished disgust). Sophronia! My name is Gloria. I am
+always called by it.
+
+CRAMPTON (his temper rising again). Your name is Sophronia, girl: you
+were called after your aunt Sophronia, my sister: she gave you your
+first Bible with your name written in it.
+
+GLORIA. Then my mother gave me a new name.
+
+CRAMPTON (angrily). She had no right to do it. I will not allow this.
+
+GLORIA. You had no right to give me your sister's name. I don't know
+her.
+
+CRAMPTON. You're talking nonsense. There are bounds to what I will put
+up with. I will not have it. Do you hear that?
+
+GLORIA (rising warningly). Are you resolved to quarrel?
+
+CRAMPTON (terrified, pleading). No, no: sit down. Sit down, won't you?
+(She looks at him, keeping him in suspense. He forces himself to utter
+the obnoxious name.) Gloria. (She marks her satisfaction with a slight
+tightening of the lips, and sits down.) There! You see I only want to
+shew you that I am your father, my--my dear child. (The endearment is
+so plaintively inept that she smiles in spite of herself, and resigns
+herself to indulge him a little.) Listen now. What I want to ask you is
+this. Don't you remember me at all? You were only a tiny child when you
+were taken away from me; but you took plenty of notice of things. Can't
+you remember someone whom you loved, or (shyly) at least liked in a
+childish way? Come! someone who let you stay in his study and look at
+his toy boats, as you thought them? (He looks anxiously into her face
+for some response, and continues less hopefully and more urgently)
+Someone who let you do as you liked there and never said a word to you
+except to tell you that you must sit still and not speak? Someone who
+was something that no one else was to you--who was your father.
+
+GLORIA (unmoved). If you describe things to me, no doubt I shall
+presently imagine that I remember them. But I really remember nothing.
+
+CRAMPTON (wistfully). Has your mother never told you anything about me?
+
+GLORIA. She has never mentioned your name to me. (He groans
+involuntarily. She looks at him rather contemptuously and continues)
+Except once; and then she did remind me of something I had forgotten.
+
+CRAMPTON (looking up hopefully). What was that?
+
+GLORIA (mercilessly). The whip you bought to beat me with.
+
+CRAMPTON (gnashing his teeth). Oh! To bring that up against me! To turn
+from me! When you need never have known. (Under a grinding, agonized
+breath.) Curse her!
+
+GLORIA (springing up). You wretch! (With intense emphasis.) You wretch!!
+You dare curse my mother!
+
+CRAMPTON. Stop; or you'll be sorry afterwards. I'm your father.
+
+GLORIA. How I hate the name! How I love the name of mother! You had
+better go.
+
+CRAMPTON. I--I'm choking. You want to kill me. Some--I-- (His voice
+stifles: he is almost in a fit.)
+
+GLORIA (going up to the balustrade with cool, quick resourcefulness, and
+calling over to the beach). Mr. Valentine!
+
+VALENTINE (answering from below). Yes.
+
+GLORIA. Come here a moment, please. Mr. Crampton wants you. (She returns
+to the table and pours out a glass of water.)
+
+CRAMPTON (recovering his speech). No: let me alone. I don't want him.
+I'm all right, I tell you. I need neither his help nor yours. (He rises
+and pulls himself together.) As you say, I had better go. (He puts on
+his hat.) Is that your last word?
+
+GLORIA. I hope so. (He looks stubbornly at her for a moment; nods
+grimly, as if he agreed to that; and goes into the hotel. She looks at
+him with equal steadiness until he disappears, when she makes a gesture
+of relief, and turns to speak to Valentine, who comes running up the
+steps.)
+
+VALENTINE (panting). What's the matter? (Looking round.) Where's
+Crampton?
+
+GLORIA. Gone. (Valentine's face lights up with sudden joy, dread,
+and mischief. He has just realized that he is alone with Gloria. She
+continues indifferently) I thought he was ill; but he recovered himself.
+He wouldn't wait for you. I am sorry. (She goes for her book and
+parasol.)
+
+VALENTINE. So much the better. He gets on my nerves after a while.
+(Pretending to forget himself.) How could that man have so beautiful a
+daughter!
+
+GLORIA (taken aback for a moment; then answering him with polite but
+intentional contempt). That seems to be an attempt at what is called a
+pretty speech. Let me say at once, Mr. Valentine, that pretty speeches
+make very sickly conversation. Pray let us be friends, if we are to be
+friends, in a sensible and wholesome way. I have no intention of getting
+married; and unless you are content to accept that state of things, we
+had much better not cultivate each other's acquaintance.
+
+VALENTINE (cautiously). I see. May I ask just this one question? Is
+your objection an objection to marriage as an institution, or merely an
+objection to marrying me personally?
+
+GLORIA. I do not know you well enough, Mr. Valentine, to have any
+opinion on the subject of your personal merits. (She turns away from him
+with infinite indifference, and sits down with her book on the garden
+seat.) I do not think the conditions of marriage at present are such as
+any self-respecting woman can accept.
+
+VALENTINE (instantly changing his tone for one of cordial sincerity, as
+if he frankly accepted her terms and was delighted and reassured by her
+principles). Oh, then that's a point of sympathy between us already. I
+quite agree with you: the conditions are most unfair. (He takes off his
+hat and throws it gaily on the iron table.) No: what I want is to get
+rid of all that nonsense. (He sits down beside her, so naturally that
+she does not think of objecting, and proceeds, with enthusiasm) Don't
+you think it a horrible thing that a man and a woman can hardly know one
+another without being supposed to have designs of that kind? As if there
+were no other interests--no other subjects of conversation--as if women
+were capable of nothing better!
+
+GLORIA (interested). Ah, now you are beginning to talk humanly and
+sensibly, Mr. Valentine.
+
+VALENTINE (with a gleam in his eye at the success of his hunter's
+guile). Of course!--two intelligent people like us. Isn't it pleasant,
+in this stupid, convention-ridden world, to meet with someone on the
+same plane--someone with an unprejudiced, enlightened mind?
+
+GLORIA (earnestly). I hope to meet many such people in England.
+
+VALENTINE (dubiously). Hm! There are a good many people here-- nearly
+forty millions. They're not all consumptive members of the highly
+educated classes like the people in Madeira.
+
+GLORIA (now full of her subject). Oh, everybody is stupid and prejudiced
+in Madeira--weak, sentimental creatures! I hate weakness; and I hate
+sentiment.
+
+VALENTINE. That's what makes you so inspiring.
+
+GLORIA (with a slight laugh). Am I inspiring?
+
+VALENTINE Yes. Strength's infectious.
+
+GLORIA. Weakness is, I know.
+
+VALENTINE (with conviction). Y o u're strong. Do you know that you
+changed the world for me this morning? I was in the dumps, thinking of
+my unpaid rent, frightened about the future. When you came in, I was
+dazzled. (Her brow clouds a little. He goes on quickly.) That was silly,
+of course; but really and truly something happened to me. Explain it
+how you will, my blood got-- (he hesitates, trying to think of a
+sufficiently unimpassioned word) --oxygenated: my muscles braced; my
+mind cleared; my courage rose. That's odd, isn't it? considering that I
+am not at all a sentimental man.
+
+GLORIA (uneasily, rising). Let us go back to the beach.
+
+VALENTINE (darkly--looking up at her). What! you feel it, too?
+
+GLORIA. Feel what?
+
+VALENTINE. Dread.
+
+GLORIA. Dread!
+
+VALENTINE. As if something were going to happen. It came over me
+suddenly just before you proposed that we should run away to the others.
+
+GLORIA (amazed). That's strange--very strange! I had the same
+presentiment.
+
+VALENTINE. How extraordinary! (Rising.) Well: shall we run away?
+
+GLORIA. Run away! Oh, no: that would be childish. (She sits down
+again. He resumes his seat beside her, and watches her with a gravely
+sympathetic air. She is thoughtful and a little troubled as she adds) I
+wonder what is the scientific explanation of those fancies that cross us
+occasionally!
+
+VALENTINE. Ah, I wonder! It's a curiously helpless sensation: isn't it?
+
+GLORIA (rebelling against the word). Helpless?
+
+VALENTINE. Yes. As if Nature, after allowing us to belong to ourselves
+and do what we judged right and reasonable for all these years, were
+suddenly lifting her great hand to take us--her two little children--by
+the scruff's of our little necks, and use us, in spite of ourselves, for
+her own purposes, in her own way.
+
+GLORIA. Isn't that rather fanciful?
+
+VALENTINE (with a new and startling transition to a tone of utter
+recklessness). I don't know. I don't care. (Bursting out reproachfully.)
+Oh, Miss Clandon, Miss Clandon: how could you?
+
+GLORIA. What have I done?
+
+VALENTINE. Thrown this enchantment on me. I'm honestly trying to be
+sensible--scientific--everything that you wish me to be. But--but-- oh,
+don't you see what you have set to work in my imagination?
+
+GLORIA (with indignant, scornful sternness). I hope you are not going to
+be so foolish--so vulgar--as to say love.
+
+VALENTINE (with ironical haste to disclaim such a weakness). No, no, no.
+Not love: we know better than that. Let's call it chemistry. You can't
+deny that there is such a thing as chemical action, chemical affinity,
+chemical combination--the most irresistible of all natural forces. Well,
+you're attracting me irresistibly--chemically.
+
+GLORIA (contemptuously). Nonsense!
+
+VALENTINE. Of course it's nonsense, you stupid girl. (Gloria recoils
+in outraged surprise.) Yes, stupid girl: t h a t's a scientific fact,
+anyhow. You're a prig--a feminine prig: that's what you are. (Rising.)
+Now I suppose you've done with me for ever. (He goes to the iron table
+and takes up his hat.)
+
+GLORIA (with elaborate calm, sitting up like a High-school-mistress
+posing to be photographed). That shows how very little you understand my
+real character. I am not in the least offended. (He pauses and puts his
+hat down again.) I am always willing to be told of my own defects, Mr.
+Valentine, by my friends, even when they are as absurdly mistaken about
+me as you are. I have many faults--very serious faults--of character and
+temper; but if there is one thing that I am not, it is what you call a
+prig. (She closes her lips trimly and looks steadily and challengingly
+at him as she sits more collectedly than ever.)
+
+VALENTINE (returning to the end of the garden seat to confront her more
+emphatically). Oh, yes, you are. My reason tells me so: my knowledge
+tells me so: my experience tells me so.
+
+GLORIA. Excuse my reminding you that your reason and your knowledge and
+your experience are not infallible. At least I hope not.
+
+VALENTINE. I must believe them. Unless you wish me to believe my eyes,
+my heart, my instincts, my imagination, which are all telling me the
+most monstrous lies about you.
+
+GLORIA (the collectedness beginning to relax). Lies!
+
+VALENTINE (obstinately). Yes, lies. (He sits down again beside her.) Do
+you expect me to believe that you are the most beautiful woman in the
+world?
+
+GLORIA. That is ridiculous, and rather personal.
+
+VALENTINE. Of course it's ridiculous. Well, that's what my eyes tell
+me. (Gloria makes a movement of contemptuous protest.) No: I'm not
+flattering. I tell you I don't believe it. (She is ashamed to find that
+this does not quite please her either.) Do you think that if you were
+to turn away in disgust from my weakness, I should sit down here and cry
+like a child?
+
+GLORIA (beginning to find that she must speak shortly and pointedly to
+keep her voice steady). Why should you, pray?
+
+VALENTINE (with a stir of feeling beginning to agitate his voice).
+Of course not: I'm not such an idiot. And yet my heart tells me I
+should--my fool of a heart. But I'll argue with my heart and bring it to
+reason. If I loved you a thousand times, I'll force myself to look the
+truth steadily in the face. After all, it's easy to be sensible: the
+facts are the facts. What's this place? it's not heaven: it's the Marine
+Hotel. What's the time? it's not eternity: it's about half past one in
+the afternoon. What am I? a dentist--a five shilling dentist!
+
+GLORIA. And I am a feminine prig.
+
+VALENTINE. (passionately). No, no: I can't face that: I must have one
+illusion left--the illusion about you. I love you. (He turns towards her
+as if the impulse to touch her were ungovernable: she rises and stands
+on her guard wrathfully. He springs up impatiently and retreats a step.)
+Oh, what a fool I am!--an idiot! You don't understand: I might as well
+talk to the stones on the beach. (He turns away, discouraged.)
+
+GLORIA (reassured by his withdrawal, and a little remorseful). I am
+sorry. I do not mean to be unsympathetic, Mr. Valentine; but what can I
+say?
+
+VALENTINE (returning to her with all his recklessness of manner replaced
+by an engaging and chivalrous respect). You can say nothing, Miss
+Clandon. I beg your pardon: it was my own fault, or rather my own bad
+luck. You see, it all depended on your naturally liking me. (She is
+about to speak: he stops her deprecatingly.) Oh, I know you mustn't tell
+me whether you like me or not; but--
+
+GLORIA (her principles up in arms at once). Must not! Why not? I am a
+free woman: why should I not tell you?
+
+VALENTINE (pleading in terror, and retreating). Don't. I'm afraid to
+hear.
+
+GLORIA (no longer scornful). You need not be afraid. I think you are
+sentimental, and a little foolish; but I like you.
+
+VALENTINE (dropping into the iron chair as if crushed). Then it's all
+over. (He becomes the picture of despair.)
+
+GLORIA (puzzled, approaching him). But why?
+
+VALENTINE. Because liking is not enough. Now that I think down into it
+seriously, I don't know whether I like you or not.
+
+GLORIA (looking down at him with wondering concern). I'm sorry.
+
+VALENTINE (in an agony of restrained passion). Oh, don't pity me. Your
+voice is tearing my heart to pieces. Let me alone, Gloria. You go down
+into the very depths of me, troubling and stirring me--I can't struggle
+with it--I can't tell you--
+
+GLORIA (breaking down suddenly). Oh, stop telling me what you feel: I
+can't bear it.
+
+VALENTINE (springing up triumphantly, the agonized voice now solid,
+ringing, and jubilant). Ah, it's come at last--my moment of courage. (He
+seizes her hands: she looks at him in terror.) Our moment of courage!
+(He draws her to him; kisses her with impetuous strength; and laughs
+boyishly.) Now you've done it, Gloria. It's all over: we're in love with
+one another. (She can only gasp at him.) But what a dragon you were! And
+how hideously afraid I was!
+
+PHILIP'S VOICE (calling from the beach). Valentine!
+
+DOLLY'S VOICE. Mr. Valentine!
+
+VALENTINE. Good-bye. Forgive me. (He rapidly kisses her hands, and runs
+away to the steps, where he meets Mrs. Clandon, ascending. Gloria, quite
+lost, can only start after him.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. The children want you, Mr. Valentine. (She looks anxiously
+around.) Is he gone?
+
+VALENTINE (puzzled). He? (Recollecting.) Oh, Crampton. Gone this long
+time, Mrs. Clandon. (He runs off buoyantly down the steps.)
+
+GLORIA (sinking upon the seat). Mother!
+
+MRS. CLANDON (hurrying to her in alarm). What is it, dear?
+
+GLORIA (with heartfelt, appealing reproach). Why didn't you educate me
+properly?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (amazed). My child: I did my best.
+
+GLORIA. Oh, you taught me nothing--nothing.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. What is the matter with you?
+
+GLORIA (with the most intense expression). Only shame--shame-- shame.
+(Blushing unendurably, she covers her face with her hands and turns away
+from her mother.)
+
+END OF ACT II.
+
+
+
+
+ACT III
+
+
+The Clandon's sitting room in the hotel. An expensive apartment on the
+ground floor, with a French window leading to the gardens. In the centre
+of the room is a substantial table, surrounded by chairs, and draped
+with a maroon cloth on which opulently bound hotel and railway guides
+are displayed. A visitor entering through the window and coming down to
+this central table would have the fireplace on his left, and a writing
+table against the wall on his right, next the door, which is further
+down. He would, if his taste lay that way, admire the wall decoration
+of Lincrusta Walton in plum color and bronze lacquer, with dado and
+cornice; the ormolu consoles in the corners; the vases on pillar
+pedestals of veined marble with bases of polished black wood, one on
+each side of the window; the ornamental cabinet next the vase on the
+side nearest the fireplace, its centre compartment closed by an inlaid
+door, and its corners rounded off with curved panes of glass protecting
+shelves of cheap blue and white pottery; the bamboo tea table, with
+folding shelves, in the corresponding space on the other side of
+the window; the pictures of ocean steamers and Landseer's dogs; the
+saddlebag ottoman in line with the door but on the other side of the
+room; the two comfortable seats of the same pattern on the hearthrug;
+and finally, on turning round and looking up, the massive brass
+pole above the window, sustaining a pair of maroon rep curtains with
+decorated borders of staid green. Altogether, a room well arranged
+to flatter the occupant's sense of importance, and reconcile him to a
+charge of a pound a day for its use.
+
+Mrs. Clandon sits at the writing table, correcting proofs. Gloria is
+standing at the window, looking out in a tormented revery.
+
+The clock on the mantelpiece strikes five with a sickly clink, the bell
+being unable to bear up against the black marble cenotaph in which it is
+immured.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Five! I don't think we need wait any longer for the
+children. The are sure to get tea somewhere.
+
+GLORIA (wearily). Shall I ring?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Do, my dear. (Gloria goes to the hearth and rings.) I have
+finished these proofs at last, thank goodness!
+
+GLORIA (strolling listlessly across the room and coming behind her
+mother's chair). What proofs?
+
+MRS. CLANDON The new edition of Twentieth Century Women.
+
+GLORIA (with a bitter smile). There's a chapter missing.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (beginning to hunt among her proofs). Is there? Surely not.
+
+GLORIA. I mean an unwritten one. Perhaps I shall write it for you--when
+I know the end of it. (She goes back to the window.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Gloria! More enigmas!
+
+GLORIA. Oh, no. The same enigma.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (puzzled and rather troubled; after watching her for a
+moment). My dear.
+
+GLORIA (returning). Yes.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. You know I never ask questions.
+
+GLORIA (kneeling beside her chair). I know, I know. (She suddenly throws
+her arms about her mother and embraces her almost passionately.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. (gently, smiling but embarrassed). My dear: you are
+getting quite sentimental.
+
+GLORIA (recoiling). Ah, no, no. Oh, don't say that. Oh! (She rises and
+turns away with a gesture as if tearing herself.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (mildly). My dear: what is the matter? What-- (The waiter
+enters with the tea tray.)
+
+WAITER (balmily). This was what you rang for, ma'am, I hope?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Thank you, yes. (She turns her chair away from the writing
+table, and sits down again. Gloria crosses to the hearth and sits
+crouching there with her face averted.)
+
+WAITER (placing the tray temporarily on the centre table). I thought so,
+ma'am. Curious how the nerves seem to give out in the afternoon without
+a cup of tea. (He fetches the tea table and places it in front of Mrs.
+Cladon, conversing meanwhile.) the young lady and gentleman have just
+come back, ma'am: they have been out in a boat, ma'am. Very pleasant on
+a fine afternoon like this--very pleasant and invigorating indeed. (He
+takes the tray from the centre table and puts it on the tea table.)
+Mr. McComas will not come to tea, ma'am: he has gone to call upon Mr.
+Crampton. (He takes a couple of chairs and sets one at each end of the
+tea table.)
+
+GLORIA (looking round with an impulse of terror). And the other
+gentleman?
+
+WAITER (reassuringly, as he unconsciously drops for a moment into
+the measure of "I've been roaming," which he sang as a boy.) Oh, he's
+coming, miss, he's coming. He has been rowing the boat, miss, and has
+just run down the road to the chemist's for something to put on the
+blisters. But he will be here directly, miss--directly. (Gloria, in
+ungovernable apprehension, rises and hurries towards the door.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. (half rising). Glo-- (Gloria goes out. Mrs. Clandon looks
+perplexedly at the waiter, whose composure is unruffled.)
+
+WAITER (cheerfully). Anything more, ma'am?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Nothing, thank you.
+
+WAITER. Thank you, ma'am. (As he withdraws, Phil and Dolly, in the
+highest spirits, come tearing in. He holds the door open for them; then
+goes out and closes it.)
+
+DOLLY (ravenously). Oh, give me some tea. (Mrs. Clandon pours out a cup
+for her.) We've been out in a boat. Valentine will be here presently.
+
+PHILIP. He is unaccustomed to navigation. Where's Gloria?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (anxiously, as she pours out his tea). Phil: there is
+something the matter with Gloria. Has anything happened? (Phil and Dolly
+look at one another and stifle a laugh.) What is it?
+
+PHILIP (sitting down on her left). Romeo--
+
+DOLLY (sitting down on her right). --and Juliet.
+
+PHILIP (taking his cup of tea from Mrs. Clandon). Yes, my dear mother:
+the old, old story. Dolly: don't take all the milk. (He deftly takes the
+jug from her.) Yes: in the spring--
+
+DOLLY. --a young man's fancy--
+
+PHILIP. --lightly turns to--thank you (to Mrs. Clandon, who has passed
+the biscuits) --thoughts of love. It also occurs in the autumn. The
+young man in this case is--
+
+DOLLY. Valentine.
+
+PHILIP. And his fancy has turned to Gloria to the extent of--
+
+DOLLY. --kissing her--
+
+PHILIP. --on the terrace--
+
+DOLLY (correcting him). --on the lips, before everybody.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (incredulously). Phil! Dolly! Are you joking? (They shake
+their heads.) Did she allow it?
+
+PHILIP. We waited to see him struck to earth by the lightning of her
+scorn;--
+
+DOLLY. --but he wasn't.
+
+PHILIP. She appeared to like it.
+
+DOLLY. As far as we could judge. (Stopping Phil, who is about to pour
+out another cup.) No: you've sworn off two cups.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (much troubled). Children: you must not be here when Mr.
+Valentine comes. I must speak very seriously to him about this.
+
+PHILIP. To ask him his intentions? What a violation of Twentieth Century
+principles!
+
+DOLLY. Quite right, mamma: bring him to book. Make the most of the
+nineteenth century while it lasts.
+
+PHILIP. Sh! Here he is. (Valentine comes in.)
+
+VALENTINE Very sorry to be late for tea, Mrs. Clandon. (She takes up the
+tea-pot.) No, thank you: I never take any. No doubt Miss Dolly and Phil
+have explained what happened to me.
+
+PHILIP (momentously rising). Yes, Valentine: we have explained.
+
+DOLLY (significantly, also rising). We have explained very thoroughly.
+
+PHILIP. It was our duty. (Very seriously.) Come, Dolly. (He offers Dolly
+his arm, which she takes. They look sadly at him, and go out gravely,
+arm in arm. Valentine stares after them, puzzled; then looks at Mrs.
+Clandon for an explanation.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (rising and leaving the tea table). Will you sit down,
+Mr. Valentine. I want to speak to you a little, if you will allow me.
+(Valentine sits down slowly on the ottoman, his conscience presaging
+a bad quarter of an hour. Mrs. Clandon takes Phil's chair, and seats
+herself deliberately at a convenient distance from him.) I must begin by
+throwing myself somewhat at your consideration. I am going to speak of a
+subject of which I know very little--perhaps nothing. I mean love.
+
+VALENTINE. Love!
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Yes, love. Oh, you need not look so alarmed as that, Mr.
+Valentine: I am not in love with you.
+
+VALENTINE (overwhelmed). Oh, really, Mrs.-- (Recovering himself.) I
+should be only too proud if you were.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Thank you, Mr. Valentine. But I am too old to begin.
+
+VALENTINE. Begin! Have you never--?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Never. My case is a very common one, Mr. Valentine. I
+married before I was old enough to know what I was doing. As you have
+seen for yourself, the result was a bitter disappointment for both my
+husband and myself. So you see, though I am a married woman, I have
+never been in love; I have never had a love affair; and to be quite
+frank with you, Mr. Valentine, what I have seen of the love affairs of
+other people has not led me to regret that deficiency in my experience.
+(Valentine, looking very glum, glances sceptically at her, and says
+nothing. Her color rises a little; and she adds, with restrained anger)
+You do not believe me?
+
+VALENTINE (confused at having his thought read). Oh, why not? Why not?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Let me tell you, Mr. Valentine, that a life devoted to
+the Cause of Humanity has enthusiasms and passions to offer which far
+transcend the selfish personal infatuations and sentimentalities
+of romance. Those are not your enthusiasms and passions, I take it?
+(Valentine, quite aware that she despises him for it, answers in the
+negative with a melancholy shake of the head.) I thought not. Well, I am
+equally at a disadvantage in discussing those so-called affairs of the
+heart in which you appear to be an expert.
+
+VALENTINE (restlessly). What are you driving at, Mrs. Clandon?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I think you know.
+
+VALENTINE. Gloria?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Yes. Gloria.
+
+VALENTINE (surrendering). Well, yes: I'm in love with Gloria.
+(Interposing as she is about to speak.) I know what you're going to say:
+I've no money.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I care very little about money, Mr. Valentine.
+
+VALENTINE. Then you're very different to all the other mothers who have
+interviewed me.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Ah, now we are coming to it, Mr. Valentine. You are an old
+hand at this. (He opens his mouth to protest: she cuts him short with
+some indignation.) Oh, do you think, little as I understand these
+matters, that I have not common sense enough to know that a man
+who could make as much way in one interview with such a woman as my
+daughter, can hardly be a novice!
+
+VALENTINE. I assure you--
+
+MRS. CLANDON (stopping him). I am not blaming you, Mr. Valentine. It is
+Gloria's business to take care of herself; and you have a right to amuse
+yourself as you please. But--
+
+VALENTINE (protesting). Amuse myself! Oh, Mrs. Clandon!
+
+MRS. CLANDON (relentlessly). On your honor, Mr. Valentine, are you in
+earnest?
+
+VALENTINE (desperately). On my honor I am in earnest. (She looks
+searchingly at him. His sense of humor gets the better of him; and he
+adds quaintly) Only, I always have been in earnest; and yet--here I am,
+you see!
+
+MRS. CLANDON. This is just what I suspected. (Severely.) Mr. Valentine:
+you are one of those men who play with women's affections.
+
+VALENTINE. Well, why not, if the Cause of Humanity is the only thing
+worth being serious about? However, I understand. (Rising and taking his
+hat with formal politeness.) You wish me to discontinue my visits.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. No: I am sensible enough to be well aware that Gloria's
+best chance of escape from you now is to become better acquainted with
+you.
+
+VALENTINE (unaffectedly alarmed). Oh, don't say that, Mrs. Clandon. You
+don't think that, do you?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I have great faith, Mr. Valentine, in the sound training
+Gloria's mind has had since she was a child.
+
+VALENTINE (amazingly relieved). O-oh! Oh, that's all right. (He sits
+down again and throws his hat flippantly aside with the air of a man who
+has no longer anything to fear.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (indignant at his assurance). What do you mean?
+
+VALENTINE (turning confidentially to her). Come: shall I teach you
+something, Mrs. Clandon?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (stiffly). I am always willing to learn.
+
+VALENTINE. Have you ever studied the subject of
+gunnery--artillery--cannons and war-ships and so on?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Has gunnery anything to do with Gloria?
+
+VALENTINE. A great deal--by way of illustration. During this whole
+century, my dear Mrs. Clandon, the progress of artillery has been a duel
+between the maker of cannons and the maker of armor plates to keep the
+cannon balls out. You build a ship proof against the best gun known:
+somebody makes a better gun and sinks your ship. You build a heavier
+ship, proof against that gun: somebody makes a heavier gun and sinks you
+again. And so on. Well, the duel of sex is just like that.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. The duel of sex!
+
+VALENTINE. Yes: you've heard of the duel of sex, haven't you? Oh, I
+forgot: you've been in Madeira: the expression has come up since your
+time. Need I explain it?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (contemptuously). No.
+
+VALENTINE. Of course not. Now what happens in the duel of sex? The old
+fashioned mother received an old fashioned education to protect her
+against the wiles of man. Well, you know the result: the old fashioned
+man got round her. The old fashioned woman resolved to protect her
+daughter more effectually--to find some armor too strong for the old
+fashioned man. So she gave her daughter a scientific education--your
+plan. That was a corker for the old fashioned man: he said it wasn't
+fair--unwomanly and all the rest of it. But that didn't do him any good.
+So he had to give up his old fashioned plan of attack--you know--going
+down on his knees and swearing to love, honor and obey, and so on.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Excuse me: that was what the woman swore.
+
+VALENTINE. Was it? Ah, perhaps you're right--yes: of course it was.
+Well, what did the man do? Just what the artillery man does-- went one
+better than the woman--educated himself scientifically and beat her at
+that game just as he had beaten her at the old game. I learnt how to
+circumvent the Women's Rights woman before I was twenty- three: it's all
+been found out long ago. You see, my methods are thoroughly modern.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (with quiet disgust). No doubt.
+
+VALENTINE. But for that very reason there's one sort of girl against
+whom they are of no use.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Pray which sort?
+
+VALENTINE. The thoroughly old fashioned girl. If you had brought up
+Gloria in the old way, it would have taken me eighteen months to get
+to the point I got to this afternoon in eighteen minutes. Yes, Mrs.
+Clandon: the Higher Education of Women delivered Gloria into my hands;
+and it was you who taught her to believe in the Higher Education of
+Women.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (rising). Mr. Valentine: you are very clever.
+
+VALENTINE (rising also). Oh, Mrs. Clandon!
+
+MRS. CLANDON And you have taught me n o t h i n g. Good-bye.
+
+VALENTINE (horrified). Good-bye! Oh, mayn't I see her before I go?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I am afraid she will not return until you have gone Mr.
+Valentine. She left the room expressly to avoid you.
+
+VALENTINE (thoughtfully). That's a good sign. Good-bye. (He bows and
+makes for the door, apparently well satisfied.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (alarmed). Why do you think it a good sign?
+
+VALENTINE (turning near the door). Because I am mortally afraid of her;
+and it looks as if she were mortally afraid of me. (He turns to go and
+finds himself face to face with Gloria, who has just entered. She looks
+steadfastly at him. He stares helplessly at her; then round at Mrs.
+Clandon; then at Gloria again, completely at a loss.)
+
+GLORIA (white, and controlling herself with difficulty). Mother: is what
+Dolly told me true?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. What did she tell you, dear?
+
+GLORIA. That you have been speaking about me to this gentleman.
+
+VALENTINE (murmuring). This gentleman! Oh!
+
+MRS. CLANDON (sharply). Mr. Valentine: can you hold your tongue for a
+moment? (He looks piteously at them; then, with a despairing shrug, goes
+back to the ottoman and throws his hat on it.)
+
+GLORIA (confronting her mother, with deep reproach). Mother: what right
+had you to do it?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I don't think I have said anything I have no right to say,
+Gloria.
+
+VALENTINE (confirming her officiously). Nothing. Nothing whatever.
+(Gloria looks at him with unspeakable indignation.) I beg your pardon.
+(He sits down ignominiously on the ottoman.)
+
+GLORIA. I cannot believe that any one has any right even to think about
+things that concern me only. (She turns away from them to conceal a
+painful struggle with her emotion.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. My dear, if I have wounded your pride--
+
+GLORIA (turning on them for a moment). My p r i d e! My pride!! Oh, it's
+gone: I have learnt now that I have no strength to be proud of. (Turning
+away again.) But if a woman cannot protect herself, no one can protect
+her. No one has any right to try--not even her mother. I know I have
+lost your confidence, just as I have lost this man's respect;-- (She
+stops to master a sob.)
+
+VALENTINE (under his breath). This man! (Murmuring again.) Oh!
+
+MRS. CLANDON (in an undertone). Pray be silent, sir.
+
+GLORIA (continuing). --but I have at least the right to be left alone in
+my disgrace. I am one of those weak creatures born to be mastered by the
+first man whose eye is caught by them; and I must fulfill my destiny,
+I suppose. At least spare me the humiliation of trying to save me. (She
+sits down, with her handkerchief to her eyes, at the farther end of the
+table.)
+
+VALENTINE (jumping up). Look here--
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Mr. Va--
+
+VALENTINE (recklessly). No: I will speak: I've been silent for nearly
+thirty seconds. (He goes up to Gloria.) Miss Clandon--
+
+GLORIA (bitterly). Oh, not Miss Clandon: you have found that it is quite
+safe to call me Gloria.
+
+VALENTINE. No, I won't: you'll throw it in my teeth afterwards and
+accuse me of disrespect. I say it's a heartbreaking falsehood that I
+don't respect you. It's true that I didn't respect your old pride: why
+should I? It was nothing but cowardice. I didn't respect your intellect:
+I've a better one myself: it's a masculine specialty. But when the
+depths stirred!--when my moment came!--when you made me brave!--ah,
+then, then, t h e n!
+
+GLORIA. Then you respected me, I suppose.
+
+VALENTINE. No, I didn't: I adored you. (She rises quickly and turns her
+back on him.) And you can never take that moment away from me. So now I
+don't care what happens. (He comes down the room addressing a cheerful
+explanation to nobody in particular.) I'm perfectly aware that I'm
+talking nonsense. I can't help it. (To Mrs. Clandon.) I love Gloria; and
+there's an end of it.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (emphatically). Mr. Valentine: you are a most dangerous
+man. Gloria: come here. (Gloria, wondering a little at the command,
+obeys, and stands, with drooping head, on her mother's right hand,
+Valentine being on the opposite side. Mrs. Clandon then begins, with
+intense scorn.) Ask this man whom you have inspired and made brave, how
+many women have inspired him before (Gloria looks up suddenly with a
+flash of jealous anger and amazement); how many times he has laid the
+trap in which he has caught you; how often he has baited it with the
+same speeches; how much practice it has taken to make him perfect in his
+chosen part in life as the Duellist of Sex.
+
+VALENTINE. This isn't fair. You're abusing my confidence, Mrs. Clandon.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Ask him, Gloria.
+
+GLORIA (in a flush of rage, going over to him with her fists clenched).
+Is that true?
+
+VALENTINE. Don't be angry--
+
+GLORIA (interrupting him implacably). Is it true? Did you ever say that
+before? Did you ever feel that before--for another woman?
+
+VALENTINE (bluntly). Yes. (Gloria raises her clenched hands.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (horrified, springing to her side and catching her uplifted
+arm). Gloria!! My dear! You're forgetting yourself. (Gloria, with a deep
+expiration, slowly relaxes her threatening attitude.)
+
+VALENTINE. Remember: a man's power of love and admiration is like any
+other of his powers: he has to throw it away many times before he learns
+what is really worthy of it.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Another of the old speeches, Gloria. Take care.
+
+VALENTINE (remonstrating). Oh!
+
+GLORIA (to Mrs. Clandon, with contemptuous self-possession). Do you
+think I need to be warned now? (To Valentine.) You have tried to make me
+love you.
+
+VALENTINE. I have.
+
+GLORIA. Well, you have succeeded in making me hate you-- passionately.
+
+VALENTINE (philosophically). It's surprising how little difference
+there is between the two. (Gloria turns indignantly away from him. He
+continues, to Mrs. Clandon) I know men whose wives love them; and they
+go on exactly like that.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Excuse me, Mr. Valentine; but had you not better go?
+
+GLORIA. You need not send him away on my account, mother. He is nothing
+to me now; and he will amuse Dolly and Phil. (She sits down with
+slighting indifference, at the end of the table nearest the window.)
+
+VALENTINE (gaily). Of course: that's the sensible way of looking at it.
+Come, Mrs. Clandon: you can't quarrel with a mere butterfly like me.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I very greatly mistrust you, Mr. Valentine. But I do
+not like to think that your unfortunate levity of disposition is mere
+shamelessness and worthlessness;--
+
+GLORIA (to herself, but aloud). It is shameless; and it is worthless.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. --so perhaps we had better send for Phil and Dolly and
+allow you to end your visit in the ordinary way.
+
+VALENTINE (as if she had paid him the highest compliment). You overwhelm
+me, Mrs. Clandon. Thank you. (The waiter enters.)
+
+WAITER. Mr. McComas, ma'am.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Oh, certainly. Bring him in.
+
+WAITER. He wishes to see you in the reception-room, ma'am.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Why not here?
+
+WAITER. Well, if you will excuse my mentioning it, ma'am, I think Mr.
+McComas feels that he would get fairer play if he could speak to you
+away from the younger members of your family, ma'am.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Tell him they are not here.
+
+WAITER. They are within sight of the door, ma'am; and very watchful, for
+some reason or other.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (going). Oh, very well: I'll go to him.
+
+WAITER (holding the door open for her). Thank you, ma'am. (She goes out.
+He comes back into the room, and meets the eye of Valentine, who wants
+him to go.) All right, sir. Only the tea-things, sir. (Taking the tray.)
+Excuse me, sir. Thank you sir. (He goes out.)
+
+VALENTINE (to Gloria). Look here. You will forgive me, sooner or later.
+Forgive me now.
+
+GLORIA (rising to level the declaration more intensely at him). Never!
+While grass grows or water runs, never, never, never!!!
+
+VALENTINE (unabashed). Well, I don't care. I can't be unhappy about
+anything. I shall never be unhappy again, never, never, never, while
+grass grows or water runs. The thought of you will always make me wild
+with joy. (Some quick taunt is on her lips: he interposes swiftly.) No:
+I never said that before: that's new.
+
+GLORIA. It will not be new when you say it to the next woman.
+
+VALENTINE. Oh, don't, Gloria, don't. (He kneels at her feet.)
+
+GLORIA. Get up. Get up! How dare you? (Phil and Dolly, racing, as usual,
+for first place, burst into the room. They check themselves on seeing
+what is passing. Valentine springs up.)
+
+PHILIP (discreetly). I beg your pardon. Come, Dolly. (He turns to go.)
+
+GLORIA (annoyed). Mother will be back in a moment, Phil. (Severely.)
+Please wait here for her. (She turns away to the window, where she
+stands looking out with her back to them.)
+
+PHILIP (significantly). Oh, indeed. Hmhm!
+
+DOLLY. Ahah!
+
+PHILIP. You seem in excellent spirits, Valentine.
+
+VALENTINE. I am. (Comes between them.) Now look here. You both know
+what's going on, don't you? (Gloria turns quickly, as if anticipating
+some fresh outrage.)
+
+DOLLY. Perfectly.
+
+VALENTINE. Well, it's all over. I've been refused--scorned. I'm only
+here on sufferance. You understand: it's all over. Your sister is in no
+sense entertaining my addresses, or condescending to interest herself
+in me in any way. (Gloria, satisfied, turns back contemptuously to the
+window.) Is that clear?
+
+DOLLY. Serve you right. You were in too great a hurry.
+
+PHILIP (patting him on the shoulder). Never mind: you'd never have been
+able to call your soul your own if she'd married you. You can now begin
+a new chapter in your life.
+
+DOLLY. Chapter seventeen or thereabouts, I should imagine.
+
+VALENTINE (much put out by this pleasantry). No: don't say things like
+that. That's just the sort of thoughtless remark that makes a lot of
+mischief.
+
+DOLLY. Oh, indeed. Hmhm!
+
+PHILIP. Ahah! (He goes to the hearth and plants himself there in his
+best head-of-the-family attitude.)
+
+McComas, looking very serious, comes in quickly with Mrs. Clandon, whose
+first anxiety is about Gloria. She looks round to see where she is, and
+is going to join her at the window when Gloria comes down to meet her
+with a marked air of trust and affection. Finally, Mrs. Clandon takes
+her former seat, and Gloria posts herself behind it. McComas, on his way
+to the ottoman, is hailed by Dolly.
+
+DOLLY. What cheer, Finch?
+
+McCOMAS (sternly). Very serious news from your father, Miss Clandon.
+Very serious news indeed. (He crosses to the ottoman, and sits down.
+Dolly, looking deeply impressed, follows him and sits beside him on his
+right.)
+
+VALENTINE. Perhaps I had better go.
+
+McCOMAS. By no means, Mr. Valentine. You are deeply concerned in this.
+(Valentine takes a chair from the table and sits astride of it, leaning
+over the back, near the ottoman.) Mrs. Clandon: your husband demands the
+custody of his two younger children, who are not of age. (Mrs. Clandon,
+in quick alarm, looks instinctively to see if Dolly is safe.)
+
+DOLLY (touched). Oh, how nice of him! He likes us, mamma.
+
+McCOMAS. I am sorry to have to disabuse you of any such idea, Miss
+Dorothea.
+
+DOLLY (cooing ecstatically). Dorothee-ee-ee-a! (Nestling against his
+shoulder, quite overcome.) Oh, Finch!
+
+McCOMAS (nervously, moving away). No, no, no, no!
+
+MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). D e a r e s t Dolly! (To McComas.) The
+deed of separation gives me the custody of the children.
+
+McCOMAS. It also contains a covenant that you are not to approach or
+molest him in any way.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Well, have I done so?
+
+McCOMAS. Whether the behavior of your younger children amounts to legal
+molestation is a question on which it may be necessary to take counsel's
+opinion. At all events, Mr. Crampton not only claims to have been
+molested; but he believes that he was brought here by a plot in which
+Mr. Valentine acted as your agent.
+
+VALENTINE. What's that? Eh?
+
+McCOMAS. He alleges that you drugged him, Mr. Valentine.
+
+VALENTINE. So I did. (They are astonished.)
+
+McCOMAS. But what did you do that for?
+
+DOLLY. Five shillings extra.
+
+McCOMAS (to Dolly, short-temperedly). I must really ask you, Miss
+Clandon, not to interrupt this very serious conversation with irrelevant
+interjections. (Vehemently.) I insist on having earnest matters
+earnestly and reverently discussed. (This outburst produces an
+apologetic silence, and puts McComas himself out of countenance. He
+coughs, and starts afresh, addressing himself to Gloria.) Miss Clandon:
+it is my duty to tell you that your father has also persuaded himself
+that Mr. Valentine wishes to marry you--
+
+VALENTINE (interposing adroitly). I do.
+
+McCOMAS (offended). In that case, sir, you must not be surprised to find
+yourself regarded by the young lady's father as a fortune hunter.
+
+VALENTINE. So I am. Do you expect my wife to live on what I earn?
+ten-pence a week!
+
+McCOMAS (revolted). I have nothing more to say, sir. I shall return and
+tell Mr. Crampton that this family is no place for a father. (He makes
+for the door.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (with quiet authority). Finch! (He halts.) If Mr. Valentine
+cannot be serious, you can. Sit down. (McComas, after a brief struggle
+between his dignity and his friendship, succumbs, seating himself this
+time midway between Dolly and Mrs. Clandon.) You know that all this is
+a made up case--that Fergus does not believe in it any more than you do.
+Now give me your real advice--your sincere, friendly advice: you know
+I have always trusted your judgment. I promise you the children will be
+quiet.
+
+McCOMAS (resigning himself). Well, well! What I want to say is this. In
+the old arrangement with your husband, Mrs. Clandon, you had him at a
+terrible disadvantage.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. How so, pray?
+
+McCOMAS. Well, you were an advanced woman, accustomed to defy public
+opinion, and with no regard for what the world might say of you.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (proud of it). Yes: that is true. (Gloria, behind the
+chair, stoops and kisses her mother's hair, a demonstration which
+disconcerts her extremely.)
+
+McCOMAS. On the other hand, Mrs. Clandon, your husband had a great
+horror of anything getting into the papers. There was his business to be
+considered, as well as the prejudices of an old-fashioned family.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Not to mention his own prejudices.
+
+McCOMAS. Now no doubt he behaved badly, Mrs. Clandon--
+
+MRS. CLANDON (scornfully). No doubt.
+
+McCOMAS. But was it altogether his fault?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Was it mine?
+
+McCOMAS (hastily). No. Of course not.
+
+GLORIA (observing him attentively). You do not mean that, Mr. McComas.
+
+McCOMAS. My dear young lady, you pick me up very sharply. But let me
+just put this to you. When a man makes an unsuitable marriage (nobody's
+fault, you know, but purely accidental incompatibility of tastes); when
+he is deprived by that misfortune of the domestic sympathy which, I take
+it, is what a man marries for; when in short, his wife is rather worse
+than no wife at all (through no fault of his own, of course), is it to
+be wondered at if he makes matters worse at first by blaming her,
+and even, in his desperation, by occasionally drinking himself into a
+violent condition or seeking sympathy elsewhere?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I did not blame him: I simply rescued myself and the
+children from him.
+
+McCOMAS. Yes: but you made hard terms, Mrs. Clandon. You had him at
+your mercy: you brought him to his knees when you threatened to make
+the matter public by applying to the Courts for a judicial separation.
+Suppose he had had that power over you, and used it to take your
+children away from you and bring them up in ignorance of your very
+name, how would you feel? what would you do? Well, won't you make some
+allowance for his feelings?--in common humanity.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I never discovered his feelings. I discovered his temper,
+and his-- (she shivers) the rest of his common humanity.
+
+McCOMAS (wistfully). Women can be very hard, Mrs. Clandon.
+
+VALENTINE. That's true.
+
+GLORIA (angrily). Be silent. (He subsides.)
+
+McCOMAS (rallying all his forces). Let me make one last appeal. Mrs.
+Clandon: believe me, there are men who have a good deal of feeling, and
+kind feeling, too, which they are not able to express. What you miss
+in Crampton is that mere veneer of civilization, the art of shewing
+worthless attentions and paying insincere compliments in a kindly,
+charming way. If you lived in London, where the whole system is one of
+false good-fellowship, and you may know a man for twenty years without
+finding out that he hates you like poison, you would soon have your eyes
+opened. There we do unkind things in a kind way: we say bitter things in
+a sweet voice: we always give our friends chloroform when we tear them
+to pieces. But think of the other side of it! Think of the people who
+do kind things in an unkind way--people whose touch hurts, whose voices
+jar, whose tempers play them false, who wound and worry the people they
+love in the very act of trying to conciliate them, and yet who need
+affection as much as the rest of us. Crampton has an abominable temper,
+I admit. He has no manners, no tact, no grace. He'll never be able
+to gain anyone's affection unless they will take his desire for it on
+trust. Is he to have none--not even pity--from his own flesh and blood?
+
+DOLLY (quite melted). Oh, how beautiful, Finch! How nice of you!
+
+PHILIP (with conviction). Finch: this is eloquence--positive eloquence.
+
+DOLLY. Oh, mamma, let us give him another chance. Let us have him to
+dinner.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (unmoved). No, Dolly: I hardly got any lunch. My dear
+Finch: there is not the least use in talking to me about Fergus. You
+have never been married to him: I have.
+
+McCOMAS (to Gloria). Miss Clandon: I have hitherto refrained from
+appealing to you, because, if what Mr. Crampton told me to be true, you
+have been more merciless even than your mother.
+
+GLORIA (defiantly). You appeal from her strength to my weakness!
+
+McCOMAS. Not your weakness, Miss Clandon. I appeal from her intellect to
+your heart.
+
+GLORIA. I have learnt to mistrust my heart. (With an angry glance at
+Valentine.) I would tear my heart and throw it away if I could. My
+answer to you is my mother's answer. (She goes to Mrs. Clandon, and
+stands with her arm about her; but Mrs. Clandon, unable to endure this
+sort of demonstrativeness, disengages herself as soon as she can without
+hurting Gloria's feelings.)
+
+McCOMAS (defeated). Well, I am very sorry--very sorry. I have done my
+best. (He rises and prepares to go, deeply dissatisfied.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. But what did you expect, Finch? What do you want us to do?
+
+McCOMAS. The first step for both you and Crampton is to obtain counsel's
+opinion as to whether he is bound by the deed of separation or not. Now
+why not obtain this opinion at once, and have a friendly meeting
+(her face hardens)--or shall we say a neutral meeting?--to settle the
+difficulty--here--in this hotel--to-night? What do you say?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. But where is the counsel's opinion to come from?
+
+McCOMAS. It has dropped down on us out of the clouds. On my way back
+here from Crampton's I met a most eminent Q.C., a man whom I briefed in
+the case that made his name for him. He has come down here from Saturday
+to Monday for the sea air, and to visit a relative of his who lives
+here. He has been good enough to say that if I can arrange a meeting
+of the parties he will come and help us with his opinion. Now do let us
+seize this chance of a quiet friendly family adjustment. Let me bring my
+friend here and try to persuade Crampton to come, too. Come: consent.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (rather ominously, after a moment's consideration). Finch:
+I don't want counsel's opinion, because I intend to be guided by my own
+opinion. I don't want to meet Fergus again, because I don't like him,
+and don't believe the meeting will do any good. However (rising), you
+have persuaded the children that he is not quite hopeless. Do as you
+please.
+
+McCOMAS (taking her hand and shaking it). Thank you, Mrs. Clandon. Will
+nine o'clock suit you?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Perfectly. Phil: will you ring, please. (Phil rings the
+bell.) But if I am to be accused of conspiring with Mr. Valentine, I
+think he had better be present.
+
+VALENTINE (rising). I quite agree with you. I think it's most important.
+
+McCOMAS. There can be no objection to that, I think. I have the greatest
+hopes of a happy settlement. Good-bye for the present. (He goes out,
+meeting the waiter; who holds the door for him to pass through.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. We expect some visitors at nine, William. Can we have
+dinner at seven instead of half-past?
+
+WAITER (at the door). Seven, ma'am? Certainly, ma'am. It will be a
+convenience to us this busy evening, ma'am. There will be the band and
+the arranging of the fairy lights and one thing or another, ma'am.
+
+DOLLY. The fairy lights!
+
+PHILIP. The band! William: what mean you?
+
+WAITER. The fancy ball, miss--
+
+DOLLY and PHILIP (simultaneously rushing to him). Fancy ball!
+
+WAITER. Oh, yes, sir. Given by the regatta committee for the benefit
+of the Life-boat, sir. (To Mrs. Clandon.) We often have them, ma'am:
+Chinese lanterns in the garden, ma'am: very bright and pleasant, very
+gay and innocent indeed. (To Phil.) Tickets downstairs at the office,
+sir, five shillings: ladies half price if accompanied by a gentleman.
+
+PHILIP (seizing his arm to drag him off). To the office, William!
+
+DOLLY (breathlessly, seizing his other arm). Quick, before they're all
+sold. (They rush him out of the room between them.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. What on earth are they going to do? (Going out.) I really
+must go and stop this-- (She follows them, speaking as she disappears.
+Gloria stares coolly at Valentine, and then deliberately looks at her
+watch.)
+
+VALENTINE. I understand. I've stayed too long. I'm going.
+
+GLORIA (with disdainful punctiliousness). I owe you some apology, Mr.
+Valentine. I am conscious of having spoken somewhat sharply-- perhaps
+rudely--to you.
+
+VALENTINE. Not at all.
+
+GLORIA. My only excuse is that it is very difficult to give
+consideration and respect when there is no dignity of character on the
+other side to command it.
+
+VALENTINE (prosaically). How is a man to look dignified when he's
+infatuated?
+
+GLORIA (effectually unstilted). Don't say those things to me. I forbid
+you. They are insults.
+
+VALENTINE. No: they're only follies. I can't help them.
+
+GLORIA. If you were really in love, it would not make you foolish: it
+would give you dignity--earnestness--even beauty.
+
+VALENTINE. Do you really think it would make me beautiful? (She turns
+her back on him with the coldest contempt.) Ah, you see you're not in
+earnest. Love can't give any man new gifts. It can only heighten the
+gifts he was born with.
+
+GLORIA (sweeping round at him again). What gifts were you born with,
+pray?
+
+VALENTINE. Lightness of heart.
+
+GLORIA. And lightness of head, and lightness of faith, and lightness of
+everything that makes a man.
+
+VALENTINE. Yes, the whole world is like a feather dancing in the light
+now; and Gloria is the sun. (She rears her head angrily.) I beg your
+pardon: I'm off. Back at nine. Good-bye. (He runs off gaily, leaving her
+standing in the middle of the room staring after him.)
+
+END OF ACT III
+
+
+
+
+ACT IV
+
+
+The same room. Nine o'clock. Nobody present. The lamps are lighted; but
+the curtains are not drawn. The window stands wide open; and strings of
+Chinese lanterns are glowing among the trees outside, with the starry
+sky beyond. The band is playing dance-music in the garden, drowning the
+sound of the sea.
+
+The waiter enters, shewing in Crampton and McComas. Crampton looks cowed
+and anxious. He sits down wearily and timidly on the ottoman.
+
+WAITER. The ladies have gone for a turn through the grounds to see the
+fancy dresses, sir. If you will be so good as to take seats, gentlemen,
+I shall tell them. (He is about to go into the garden through the window
+when McComas stops him.)
+
+McCOMAS. One moment. If another gentleman comes, shew him in without any
+delay: we are expecting him.
+
+WAITER. Right, sir. What name, sir?
+
+McCOMAS. Boon. Mr. Boon. He is a stranger to Mrs. Clandon; so he may
+give you a card. If so, the name is spelt B.O.H.U.N. You will not
+forget.
+
+WAITER (smiling). You may depend on me for that, sir. My own name is
+Boon, sir, though I am best known down here as Balmy Walters, sir. By
+rights I should spell it with the aitch you, sir; but I think it best
+not to take that liberty, sir. There is Norman blood in it, sir; and
+Norman blood is not a recommendation to a waiter.
+
+McCOMAS. Well, well: "True hearts are more than coronets, and simple
+faith than Norman blood."
+
+WAITER. That depends a good deal on one's station in life, sir. If you
+were a waiter, sir, you'd find that simple faith would leave you just
+as short as Norman blood. I find it best to spell myself B. double-O.N.,
+and to keep my wits pretty sharp about me. But I'm taking up your time,
+sir. You'll excuse me, sir: your own fault for being so affable, sir.
+I'll tell the ladies you're here, sir. (He goes out into the garden
+through the window.)
+
+McCOMAS. Crampton: I can depend on you, can't I?
+
+CRAMPTON. Yes, yes. I'll be quiet. I'll be patient. I'll do my best.
+
+McCOMAS. Remember: I've not given you away. I've told them it was all
+their fault.
+
+CRAMPTON. You told me that it was all my fault.
+
+McCOMAS. I told you the truth.
+
+CRAMPTON (plaintively). If they will only be fair to me!
+
+McCOMAS. My dear Crampton, they won't be fair to you: it's not to be
+expected from them at their age. If you're going to make impossible
+conditions of this kind, we may as well go back home at once.
+
+CRAMPTON. But surely I have a right--
+
+McCOMAS (intolerantly). You won't get your rights. Now, once for all,
+Crampton, did your promises of good behavior only mean that you won't
+complain if there's nothing to complain of? Because, if so-- (He moves
+as if to go.)
+
+CRAMPTON (miserably). No, no: let me alone, can't you? I've been bullied
+enough: I've been tormented enough. I tell you I'll do my best. But if
+that girl begins to talk to me like that and to look at me like-- (He
+breaks off and buries his head in his hands.)
+
+McCOMAS (relenting). There, there: it'll be all right, if you will only
+bear and forbear. Come, pull yourself together: there's someone coming.
+(Crampton, too dejected to care much, hardly changes his attitude.
+Gloria enters from the garden; McComas goes to meet her at the window;
+so that he can speak to her without being heard by Crampton.) There he
+is, Miss Clandon. Be kind to him. I'll leave you with him for a moment.
+(He goes into the garden. Gloria comes in and strolls coolly down the
+middle of the room.)
+
+CRAMPTON (looking round in alarm). Where's McComas?
+
+GLORIA (listlessly, but not unsympathetically). Gone out--to leave us
+together. Delicacy on his part, I suppose. (She stops beside him and
+looks quaintly down at him.) Well, father?
+
+CRAMPTON (a quaint jocosity breaking through his forlornness). Well,
+daughter? (They look at one another for a moment, with a melancholy
+sense of humor.)
+
+GLORIA. Shake hands. (They shake hands.)
+
+CRAMPTON (holding her hand). My dear: I'm afraid I spoke very improperly
+of your mother this afternoon.
+
+GLORIA. Oh, don't apologize. I was very high and mighty myself; but I've
+come down since: oh, yes: I've been brought down. (She sits on the floor
+beside his chair.)
+
+CRAMPTON. What has happened to you, my child?
+
+GLORIA. Oh, never mind. I was playing the part of my mother's daughter
+then; but I'm not: I'm my father's daughter. (Looking at him funnily.)
+That's a come down, isn't it?
+
+CRAMPTON (angry). What! (Her odd expression does not alter. He
+surrenders.) Well, yes, my dear: I suppose it is, I suppose it is. (She
+nods sympathetically.) I'm afraid I'm sometimes a little irritable; but
+I know what's right and reasonable all the time, even when I don't act
+on it. Can you believe that?
+
+GLORIA. Believe it! Why, that's myself--myself all over. I know what's
+right and dignified and strong and noble, just as well as she does; but
+oh, the things I do! the things I do! the things I let other people do!!
+
+CRAMPTON (a little grudgingly in spite of himself). As well as she does?
+You mean your mother?
+
+GLORIA (quickly). Yes, mother. (She turns to him on her knees and seizes
+his hands.) Now listen. No treason to her: no word, no thought against
+her. She is our superior--yours and mine--high heavens above us. Is that
+agreed?
+
+CRAMPTON. Yes, yes. Just as you please, my dear.
+
+GLORIA (not satisfied, letting go his hands and drawing back from him).
+You don't like her?
+
+CRAMPTON. My child: you haven't been married to her. I have. (She raises
+herself slowly to her feet, looking at him with growing coldness.) She
+did me a great wrong in marrying me without really caring for me. But
+after that, the wrong was all on my side, I dare say. (He offers her his
+hand again.)
+
+GLORIA (taking it firmly and warningly). Take care. That's a dangerous
+subject. My feelings--my miserable, cowardly, womanly feelings--may be
+on your side; but my conscience is on hers.
+
+CRAMPTON. I'm very well content with that division, my dear. Thank you.
+(Valentine arrives. Gloria immediately becomes deliberately haughty.)
+
+VALENTINE. Excuse me; but it's impossible to find a servant to announce
+one: even the never failing William seems to be at the ball. I should
+have gone myself; only I haven't five shillings to buy a ticket. How are
+you getting on, Crampton? Better, eh?
+
+CRAMPTON. I am myself again, Mr. Valentine, no thanks to you.
+
+VALENTINE. Look at this ungrateful parent of yours, Miss Clandon! I
+saved him from an excruciating pang; and he reviles me!
+
+GLORIA (coldly). I am sorry my mother is not here to receive you, Mr.
+Valentine. It is not quite nine o'clock; and the gentleman of whom Mr.
+McComas spoke, the lawyer, is not yet come.
+
+VALENTINE. Oh, yes, he is. I've met him and talked to him. (With gay
+malice.) You'll like him, Miss Clandon: he's the very incarnation of
+intellect. You can hear his mind working.
+
+GLORIA (ignoring the jibe). Where is he?
+
+VALENTINE. Bought a false nose and gone into the fancy ball.
+
+CRAMPTON (crustily, looking at his watch). It seems that everybody has
+gone to this fancy ball instead of keeping to our appointment here.
+
+VALENTINE. Oh, he'll come all right enough: that was half an hour ago.
+I didn't like to borrow five shillings from him and go in with him; so
+I joined the mob and looked through the railings until Miss Clandon
+disappeared into the hotel through the window.
+
+GLORIA. So it has come to this, that you follow me about in public to
+stare at me.
+
+VALENTINE. Yes: somebody ought to chain me up.
+
+Gloria turns her back on him and goes to the fireplace. He takes the
+snub very philosophically, and goes to the opposite side of the room.
+The waiter appears at the window, ushering in Mrs. Clandon and McComas.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (hurrying in). I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.
+
+A grotesquely majestic stranger, in a domino and false nose, with
+goggles, appears at the window.
+
+WAITER (to the stranger). Beg pardon, sir; but this is a private
+apartment, sir. If you will allow me, sir, I will shew you to the
+American bar and supper rooms, sir. This way, sir.
+
+He goes into the gardens, leading the way under the impression that the
+stranger is following him. The majestic one, however, comes straight
+into the room to the end of the table, where, with impressive
+deliberation, he takes off the false nose and then the domino, rolling
+up the nose into the domino and throwing the bundle on the table like a
+champion throwing down his glove. He is now seen to be a stout, tall
+man between forty and fifty, clean shaven, with a midnight oil pallor
+emphasized by stiff black hair, cropped short and oiled, and eyebrows
+like early Victorian horsehair upholstery. Physically and spiritually,
+a coarsened man: in cunning and logic, a ruthlessly sharpened one. His
+bearing as he enters is sufficiently imposing and disquieting; but
+when he speaks, his powerful, menacing voice, impressively articulated
+speech, strong inexorable manner, and a terrifying power of intensely
+critical listening raise the impression produced by him to absolute
+tremendousness.
+
+THE STRANGER. My name is Bohun. (General awe.) Have I the honor of
+addressing Mrs. Clandon? (Mrs. Clandon bows. Bohun bows.) Miss Clandon?
+(Gloria bows. Bohun bows.) Mr. Clandon?
+
+CRAMPTON (insisting on his rightful name as angrily as he dares). My
+name is Crampton, sir.
+
+BOHUN. Oh, indeed. (Passing him over without further notice and turning
+to Valentine.) Are you Mr. Clandon?
+
+VALENTINE (making it a point of honor not to be impressed by him). Do I
+look like it? My name is Valentine. I did the drugging.
+
+BOHUN. Ah, quite so. Then Mr. Clandon has not yet arrived?
+
+WAITER (entering anxiously through the window). Beg pardon, ma'am; but
+can you tell me what became of that-- (He recognizes Bohun, and loses
+all his self-possession. Bohun waits rigidly for him to pull himself
+together. After a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he recovers himself
+sufficiently to address Bohun weakly but coherently.) Beg pardon, sir,
+I'm sure, sir. Was--was it you, sir?
+
+BOHUN (ruthlessly). It was I.
+
+WAITER (brokenly). Yes, sir. (Unable to restrain his tears.) You in a
+false nose, Walter! (He sinks faintly into a chair at the table.) I beg
+pardon, ma'am, I'm sure. A little giddiness--
+
+BOHUN (commandingly). You will excuse him, Mrs. Clandon, when I inform
+you that he is my father.
+
+WAITER (heartbroken). Oh, no, no, Walter. A waiter for your father on
+the top of a false nose! What will they think of you?
+
+MRS. CLANDON (going to the waiter's chair in her kindest manner). I
+am delighted to hear it, Mr. Bohun. Your father has been an excellent
+friend to us since we came here. (Bohun bows gravely.)
+
+WAITER (shaking his head). Oh, no, ma'am. It's very kind of you--
+very ladylike and affable indeed, ma'am; but I should feel at a
+great disadvantage off my own proper footing. Never mind my being the
+gentleman's father, ma'am: it is only the accident of birth after all,
+ma'am. (He gets up feebly.) You'll all excuse me, I'm sure, having
+interrupted your business. (He begins to make his way along the table,
+supporting himself from chair to chair, with his eye on the door.)
+
+BOHUN. One moment. (The waiter stops, with a sinking heart.) My father
+was a witness of what passed to-day, was he not, Mrs. Clandon?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Yes, most of it, I think.
+
+BOHUN. In that case we shall want him.
+
+WAITER (pleading). I hope it may not be necessary, sir. Busy evening for
+me, sir, with that ball: very busy evening indeed, sir.
+
+BOHUN (inexorably). We shall want you.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (politely). Sit down, won't you?
+
+WAITER (earnestly). Oh, if you please, ma'am, I really must draw the
+line at sitting down. I couldn't let myself be seen doing such a thing,
+ma'am: thank you, I am sure, all the same. (He looks round from face to
+face wretchedly, with an expression that would melt a heart of stone.)
+
+GLORIA. Don't let us waste time. William only wants to go on taking care
+of us. I should like a cup of coffee.
+
+WAITER (brightening perceptibly). Coffee, miss? (He gives a little gasp
+of hope.) Certainly, miss. Thank you, miss: very timely, miss, very
+thoughtful and considerate indeed. (To Mrs. Clandon, timidly but
+expectantly.) Anything for you, ma'am?
+
+MRS. CLANDON Er--oh, yes: it's so hot, I think we might have a jug of
+claret cup.
+
+WAITER (beaming). Claret cup, ma'am! Certainly, ma'am.
+
+GLORIA Oh, well I'll have a claret cup instead of coffee. Put some
+cucumber in it.
+
+WAITER (delighted). Cucumber, miss! yes, miss. (To Bohun.) Anything
+special for you, sir? You don't like cucumber, sir.
+
+BOHUN. If Mrs. Clandon will allow me--syphon--Scotch.
+
+WAITER. Right, sir. (To Crampton.) Irish for you, sir, I think,
+sir? (Crampton assents with a grunt. The waiter looks enquiringly at
+Valentine.)
+
+VALENTINE. I like the cucumber.
+
+WAITER. Right, sir. (Summing up.) Claret cup, syphon, one Scotch and one
+Irish?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. I think that's right.
+
+WAITER (perfectly happy). Right, ma'am. Directly, ma'am. Thank you. (He
+ambles off through the window, having sounded the whole gamut of human
+happiness, from the bottom to the top, in a little over two minutes.)
+
+McCOMAS. We can begin now, I suppose?
+
+BOHUN. We had better wait until Mrs. Clandon's husband arrives.
+
+CRAMPTON. What d'y' mean? I'm her husband.
+
+BOHUN (instantly pouncing on the inconsistency between this and his
+previous statement). You said just now your name was Crampton.
+
+CRAMPTON. So it is.
+
+MRS. CLANDON } (all four { I--
+
+GLORIA } speaking { My--
+
+McCOMAS } simul- { Mrs.--
+
+VALENTINE } taneously). { You--
+
+BOHUN (drowning them in two thunderous words). One moment. (Dead
+silence.) Pray allow me. Sit down everybody. (They obey humbly. Gloria
+takes the saddle-bag chair on the hearth. Valentine slips around to her
+side of the room and sits on the ottoman facing the window, so that
+he can look at her. Crampton sits on the ottoman with his back to
+Valentine's. Mrs. Clandon, who has all along kept at the opposite side
+of the room in order to avoid Crampton as much as possible, sits near
+the door, with McComas beside her on her left. Bohun places himself
+magisterially in the centre of the group, near the corner of the table
+on Mrs. Clandon's side. When they are settled, he fixes Crampton with
+his eye, and begins.) In this family, it appears, the husband's name is
+Crampton: the wife's Clandon. Thus we have on the very threshold of the
+case an element of confusion.
+
+VALENTINE (getting up and speaking across to him with one knee on the
+ottoman). But it's perfectly simple.
+
+BOHUN (annihilating him with a vocal thunderbolt). It is. Mrs. Clandon
+has adopted another name. That is the obvious explanation which you
+feared I could not find out for myself. You mistrust my intelligence,
+Mr. Valentine-- (Stopping him as he is about to protest.) No: I don't
+want you to answer that: I want you to think over it when you feel your
+next impulse to interrupt me.
+
+VALENTINE (dazed). This is simply breaking a butterfly on a wheel. What
+does it matter? (He sits down again.)
+
+BOHUN. I will tell you what it matters, sir. It matters that if this
+family difference is to be smoothed over as we all hope it may be, Mrs.
+Clandon, as a matter of social convenience and decency, will have to
+resume her husband's name. (Mrs. Clandon assumes an expression of the
+most determined obstinacy.) Or else Mr. Crampton will have to call
+himself Mr. Clandon. (Crampton looks indomitably resolved to do nothing
+of the sort.) No doubt you think that an easy matter, Mr. Valentine. (He
+looks pointedly at Mrs. Clandon, then at Crampton.) I differ from you.
+(He throws himself back in his chair, frowning heavily.)
+
+McCOMAS (timidly). I think, Bohun, we had perhaps better dispose of the
+important questions first.
+
+BOHUN. McComas: there will be no difficulty about the important
+questions. There never is. It is the trifles that will wreck you at the
+harbor mouth. (McComas looks as if he considered this a paradox.) You
+don't agree with me, eh?
+
+McCOMAS (flatteringly). If I did--
+
+BOHUN (interrupting him). If you did, you would be me, instead of being
+what you are.
+
+McCOMAS (fawning on him). Of course, Bohun, your specialty--
+
+BOHUN (again interrupting him). My specialty is being right when other
+people are wrong. If you agreed with me I should be of no use here. (He
+nods at him to drive the point home; then turns suddenly and forcibly on
+Crampton.) Now you, Mr. Crampton: what point in this business have you
+most at heart?
+
+CRAMPTON (beginning slowly). I wish to put all considerations of self
+aside in this matter--
+
+BOHUN (interrupting him). So do we all, Mr. Crampton. (To Mrs. Clandon.)
+Y o u wish to put self aside, Mrs. Clandon?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Yes: I am not consulting my own feelings in being here.
+
+BOHUN. So do you, Miss Clandon?
+
+GLORIA. Yes.
+
+BOHUN. I thought so. We all do.
+
+VALENTINE. Except me. My aims are selfish.
+
+BOHUN. That's because you think an impression of sincerity will produce
+a better effect on Miss Clandon than an impression of disinterestedness.
+(Valentine, utterly dismantled and destroyed by this just remark, takes
+refuge in a feeble, speechless smile. Bohun, satisfied at having now
+effectually crushed all rebellion, throws himself back in his chair,
+with an air of being prepared to listen tolerantly to their grievances.)
+Now, Mr. Crampton, go on. It's understood that self is put aside. Human
+nature always begins by saying that.
+
+CRAMPTON. But I mean it, sir.
+
+BOHUN. Quite so. Now for your point.
+
+CRAMPTON. Every reasonable person will admit that it's an unselfish
+one--the children.
+
+BOHUN. Well? What about the children?
+
+CRAMPTON (with emotion). They have--
+
+BOHUN (pouncing forward again). Stop. You're going to tell me about your
+feelings, Mr. Crampton. Don't: I sympathize with them; but they're not
+my business. Tell us exactly what you want: that's what we have to get
+at.
+
+CRAMPTON (uneasily). It's a very difficult question to answer, Mr.
+Bohun.
+
+BOHUN. Come: I'll help you out. What do you object to in the present
+circumstances of the children?
+
+CRAMPTON. I object to the way they have been brought up.
+
+BOHUN. How do you propose to alter that now?
+
+CRAMPTON. I think they ought to dress more quietly.
+
+VALENTINE. Nonsense.
+
+BOHUN (instantly flinging himself back in his chair, outraged by the
+interruption). When you are done, Mr. Valentine--when you are quite
+done.
+
+VALENTINE. What's wrong with Miss Clandon's dress?
+
+CRAMPTON (hotly to Valentine). My opinion is as good as yours.
+
+GLORIA (warningly). Father!
+
+CRAMPTON (subsiding piteously). I didn't mean you, my dear. (Pleading
+earnestly to Bohun.) But the two younger ones! you have not seen them,
+Mr. Bohun; and indeed I think you would agree with me that there is
+something very noticeable, something almost gay and frivolous in their
+style of dressing.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (impatiently). Do you suppose I choose their clothes for
+them? Really this is childish.
+
+CRAMPTON (furious, rising). Childish! (Mrs. Clandon rises indignantly.)
+
+McCOMAS } (all ris- } Crampton, you promised--
+
+VALENTINE } ing and } Ridiculous. They dress
+
+          }  speaking   }   charmingly.
+
+GLORIA } together). } Pray let us behave reasonably.
+
+Tumult. Suddenly they hear a chime of glasses in the room behind them.
+They turn in silent surprise and find that the waiter has just come back
+from the bar in the garden, and is jingling his tray warningly as he
+comes softly to the table with it.
+
+WAITER (to Crampton, setting a tumbler apart on the table). Irish for
+you, sir. (Crampton sits down a little shamefacedly. The waiter sets
+another tumbler and a syphon apart, saying to Bohun) Scotch and syphon
+for you, sir. (Bohun waves his hand impatiently. The waiter places a
+large glass jug in the middle.) And claret cup. (All subside into their
+seats. Peace reigns.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (humbly to Bohun). I am afraid we interrupted you, Mr.
+Bohun.
+
+BOHUN (calmly). You did. (To the waiter, who is going out.) Just wait a
+bit.
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. (He takes his stand behind Bohun's
+chair.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (to the waiter). You don't mind our detaining you, I hope.
+Mr. Bohun wishes it.
+
+WAITER (now quite at his ease). Oh, no, ma'am, not at all, ma'am. It
+is a pleasure to me to watch the working of his trained and powerful
+mind--very stimulating, very entertaining and instructive indeed, ma'am.
+
+BOHUN (resuming command of the proceedings). Now, Mr. Crampton: we are
+waiting for you. Do you give up your objection to the dressing, or do
+you stick to it?
+
+CRAMPTON (pleading). Mr. Bohun: consider my position for a moment. I
+haven't got myself alone to consider: there's my sister Sophronia and
+my brother-in-law and all their circle. They have a great horror of
+anything that is at all--at all--well--
+
+BOHUN. Out with it. Fast? Loud? Gay?
+
+CRAMPTON. Not in any unprincipled sense of course; but--but-- (blurting
+it out desperately) those two children would shock them. They're not fit
+to mix with their own people. That's what I complain of.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (with suppressed impatience). Mr. Valentine: do you think
+there is anything fast or loud about Phil and Dolly?
+
+VALENTINE. Certainly not. It's utter bosh. Nothing can be in better
+taste.
+
+CRAMPTON. Oh, yes: of course you say so.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. William: you see a great deal of good English society. Are
+my children overdressed?
+
+WAITER (reassuringly). Oh, dear, no, ma'am. (Persuasively.) Oh, no,
+sir, not at all. A little pretty and tasty no doubt; but very choice
+and classy--very genteel and high toned indeed. Might be the son and
+daughter of a Dean, sir, I assure you, sir. You have only to look at
+them, sir, to-- (At this moment a harlequin and columbine, dancing to
+the music of the band in the garden, which has just reached the coda of
+a waltz, whirl one another into the room. The harlequin's dress is
+made of lozenges, an inch square, of turquoise blue silk and gold
+alternately. His hat is gilt and his mask turned up. The columbine's
+petticoats are the epitome of a harvest field, golden orange and poppy
+crimson, with a tiny velvet jacket for the poppy stamens. They pass, an
+exquisite and dazzling apparition, between McComas and Bohun, and then
+back in a circle to the end of the table, where, as the final chord of
+the waltz is struck, they make a tableau in the middle of the company,
+the harlequin down on his left knee, and the columbine standing on his
+right knee, with her arms curved over her head. Unlike their dancing,
+which is charmingly graceful, their attitudinizing is hardly a success,
+and threatens to end in a catastrophe.)
+
+THE COLUMBINE (screaming). Lift me down, somebody: I'm going to fall.
+Papa: lift me down.
+
+CRAMPTON (anxiously running to her and taking her hands). My child!
+
+DOLLY (jumping down with his help). Thanks: so nice of you. (Phil,
+putting his hat into his belt, sits on the side of the table and pours
+out some claret cup. Crampton returns to his place on the ottoman in
+great perplexity.) Oh, what fun! Oh, dear. (She seats herself with a
+vault on the front edge of the table, panting.) Oh, claret cup! (She
+drinks.)
+
+BOHUN (in powerful tones). This is the younger lady, is it?
+
+DOLLY (slipping down off the table in alarm at his formidable voice and
+manner). Yes, sir. Please, who are you?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. This is Mr. Bohun, Dolly, who has very kindly come to help
+us this evening.
+
+DOLLY. Oh, then he comes as a boon and a blessing--
+
+PHILIP. Sh!
+
+CRAMPTON. Mr. Bohun--McComas: I appeal to you. Is this right? Would you
+blame my sister's family for objecting to this?
+
+DOLLY (flushing ominously). Have you begun again?
+
+CRAMPTON (propitiating her). No, no. It's perhaps natural at your age.
+
+DOLLY (obstinately). Never mind my age. Is it pretty?
+
+CRAMPTON. Yes, dear, yes. (He sits down in token of submission.)
+
+DOLLY (following him insistently). Do you like it?
+
+CRAMPTON. My child: how can you expect me to like it or to approve of
+it?
+
+DOLLY (determined not to let him off). How can you think it pretty and
+not like it?
+
+McCOMAS (rising, angry and scandalized). Really I must say-- (Bohun,
+who has listened to Dolly with the highest approval, is down on him
+instantly.)
+
+BOHUN. No: don't interrupt, McComas. The young lady's method is right.
+(To Dolly, with tremendous emphasis.) Press your questions, Miss
+Clandon: press your questions.
+
+DOLLY (rising). Oh, dear, you are a regular overwhelmer! Do you always
+go on like this?
+
+BOHUN (rising). Yes. Don't you try to put me out of countenance, young
+lady: you're too young to do it. (He takes McComas's chair from
+beside Mrs. Clandon's and sets it beside his own.) Sit down. (Dolly,
+fascinated, obeys; and Bohun sits down again. McComas, robbed of
+his seat, takes a chair on the other side between the table and the
+ottoman.) Now, Mr. Crampton, the facts are before you--both of them. You
+think you'd like to have your two youngest children to live with you.
+Well, you wouldn't-- (Crampton tries to protest; but Bohun will not
+have it on any terms.) No, you wouldn't: you think you would; but I know
+better than you. You'd want this young lady here to give up dressing
+like a stage columbine in the evening and like a fashionable columbine
+in the morning. Well, she won't--never. She thinks she will; but--
+
+DOLLY (interrupting him). No I don't. (Resolutely.) I'll n e v e r give
+up dressing prettily. Never. As Gloria said to that man in Madeira,
+never, never, never while grass grows or water runs.
+
+VALENTINE (rising in the wildest agitation). What! What! (Beginning to
+speak very fast.) When did she say that? Who did she say that to?
+
+BOHUN (throwing himself back with massive, pitying remonstrance). Mr.
+Valentine--
+
+VALENTINE (pepperily). Don't you interrupt me, sir: this is something
+really serious. I i n s i s t on knowing who Miss Clandon said that to.
+
+DOLLY. Perhaps Phil remembers. Which was it, Phil? number three or
+number five?
+
+VALENTINE. Number five!!!
+
+PHILIP. Courage, Valentine. It wasn't number five: it was only a tame
+naval lieutenant that was always on hand--the most patient and harmless
+of mortals.
+
+GLORIA (coldly). What are we discussing now, pray?
+
+VALENTINE (very red). Excuse me: I am sorry I interrupted. I shall
+intrude no further, Mrs. Clandon. (He bows to Mrs. Clandon and marches
+away into the garden, boiling with suppressed rage.)
+
+DOLLY. Hmhm!
+
+PHILIP. Ahah!
+
+GLORIA. Please go on, Mr. Bohun.
+
+DOLLY (striking in as Bohun, frowning formidably, collects himself for a
+fresh grapple with the case). You're going to bully us, Mr. Bohun.
+
+BOHUN. I--
+
+DOLLY (interrupting him). Oh, yes, you are: you think you're not; but
+you are. I know by your eyebrows.
+
+BOHUN (capitulating). Mrs. Clandon: these are clever children-- clear
+headed, well brought up children. I make that admission deliberately.
+Can you, in return, point out to me any way of inducting them to hold
+their tongues?
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Dolly, dearest--!
+
+PHILIP. Our old failing, Dolly. Silence! (Dolly holds her mouth.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Now, Mr. Bohun, before they begin again--
+
+WAITER (softer). Be quick, sir: be quick.
+
+DOLLY (beaming at him). Dear William!
+
+PHILIP. Sh!
+
+BOHUN (unexpectedly beginning by hurling a question straight at Dolly).
+Have you any intention of getting married?
+
+DOLLY. I! Well, Finch calls me by my Christian name.
+
+McCOMAS. I will not have this. Mr. Bohun: I use the young lady's
+Christian name naturally as an old friend of her mother's.
+
+DOLLY. Yes, you call me Dolly as an old friend of my mother's. But what
+about Dorothee-ee-a? (McComas rises indignantly.)
+
+CRAMPTON (anxiously, rising to restrain him). Keep your temper, McComas.
+Don't let us quarrel. Be patient.
+
+McCOMAS. I will not be patient. You are shewing the most wretched
+weakness of character, Crampton. I say this is monstrous.
+
+DOLLY. Mr. Bohun: please bully Finch for us.
+
+BOHUN. I will. McComas: you're making yourself ridiculous. Sit down.
+
+McCOMAS. I--
+
+BOHUN (waving him down imperiously). No: sit down, sit down. (McComas
+sits down sulkily; and Crampton, much relieved, follows his example.)
+
+DOLLY (to Bohun, meekly). Thank you.
+
+BOHUN. Now, listen to me, all of you. I give no opinion, McComas, as
+to how far you may or may not have committed yourself in the direction
+indicated by this young lady. (McComas is about to protest.) No: don't
+interrupt me: if she doesn't marry you she will marry somebody else.
+That is the solution of the difficulty as to her not bearing her
+father's name. The other lady intends to get married.
+
+GLORIA (flushing). Mr. Bohun!
+
+BOHUN. Oh, yes, you do: you don't know it; but you do.
+
+GLORIA (rising). Stop. I warn you, Mr. Bohun, not to answer for my
+intentions.
+
+BOHUN (rising). It's no use, Miss Clandon: you can't put me down. I tell
+you your name will soon be neither Clandon nor Crampton; and I could
+tell you what it will be if I chose. (He goes to the other end of the
+table, where he unrolls his domino, and puts the false nose on the
+table. When he moves they all rise; and Phil goes to the window. Bohun,
+with a gesture, summons the waiter to help him in robing.) Mr. Crampton:
+your notion of going to law is all nonsense: your children will be of
+age before you could get the point decided. (Allowing the waiter to put
+the domino on his shoulders.) You can do nothing but make a friendly
+arrangement. If you want your family more than they want you, you'll get
+the worse of the arrangement: if they want you more than you want them,
+you'll get the better of it. (He shakes the domino into becoming
+folds and takes up the false nose. Dolly gazes admiringly at him.) The
+strength of their position lies in their being very agreeable people
+personally. The strength of your position lies in your income. (He claps
+on the false nose, and is again grotesquely transfigured.)
+
+DOLLY (running to him). Oh, now you look quite like a human being.
+Mayn't I have just one dance with you? C a n you dance? (Phil, resuming
+his part of harlequin, waves his hat as if casting a spell on them.)
+
+BOHUN (thunderously). Yes: you think I can't; but I can. Come along. (He
+seizes her and dances off with her through the window in a most powerful
+manner, but with studied propriety and grace. The waiter is meanwhile
+busy putting the chairs back in their customary places.)
+
+PHILIP. "On with the dance: let joy be unconfined." William!
+
+WAITER. Yes, sir.
+
+PHILIP. Can you procure a couple of dominos and false noses for my
+father and Mr. McComas?
+
+McCOMAS. Most certainly not. I protest--
+
+CRAMPTON. No, no. What harm will it do, just for once, McComas? Don't
+let us be spoil-sports.
+
+McCOMAS. Crampton: you are not the man I took you for. (Pointedly.)
+Bullies are always cowards. (He goes disgustedly towards the window.)
+
+CRAMPTON (following him). Well, never mind. We must indulge them a
+little. Can you get us something to wear, waiter?
+
+WAITER. Certainly, sir. (He precedes them to the window, and stands
+aside there to let them pass out before him.) This way, sir. Dominos and
+noses, sir?
+
+McCOMAS (angrily, on his way out). I shall wear my own nose.
+
+WAITER (suavely). Oh, dear, yes, sir: the false one will fit over it
+quite easily, sir: plenty of room, sir, plenty of room. (He goes out
+after McComas.)
+
+CRAMPTON (turning at the window to Phil with an attempt at genial
+fatherliness). Come along, my boy, come along. (He goes.)
+
+PHILIP (cheerily, following him). Coming, dad, coming. (On the window
+threshold, he stops; looking after Crampton; then turns fantastically
+with his bat bent into a halo round his head, and says with a lowered
+voice to Mrs. Clandon and Gloria) Did you feel the pathos of that? (He
+vanishes.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (left alone with Gloria). Why did Mr. Valentine go away so
+suddenly, I wonder?
+
+GLORIA (petulantly). I don't know. Yes, I d o know. Let us go and see
+the dancing. (They go towards the window, and are met by Valentine, who
+comes in from the garden walking quickly, with his face set and sulky.)
+
+VALENTINE (stiffly). Excuse me. I thought the party had quite broken up.
+
+GLORIA (nagging). Then why did you come back?
+
+VALENTINE. I came back because I am penniless. I can't get out that way
+without a five shilling ticket.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Has anything annoyed you, Mr. Valentine?
+
+GLORIA. Never mind him, mother. This is a fresh insult to me: that is
+all.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (hardly able to realize that Gloria is deliberately
+provoking an altercation). Gloria!
+
+VALENTINE. Mrs. Clandon: have I said anything insulting? Have I done
+anything insulting?
+
+GLORIA. you have implied that my past has been like yours. That is the
+worst of insults.
+
+VALENTINE. I imply nothing of the sort. I declare that my past has been
+blameless in comparison with yours.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (most indignantly). Mr. Valentine!
+
+VALENTINE. Well, what am I to think when I learn that Miss Clandon
+has made exactly the same speeches to other men that she has made
+to me--when I hear of at least five former lovers, with a tame naval
+lieutenant thrown in? Oh, it's too bad.
+
+MRS. CLANDON. But you surely do not believe that these affairs-- mere
+jokes of the children's--were serious, Mr. Valentine?
+
+VALENTINE. Not to you--not to her, perhaps. But I know what the men
+felt. (With ludicrously genuine earnestness.) Have you ever thought
+of the wrecked lives, the marriages contracted in the recklessness of
+despair, the suicides, the--the--the--
+
+GLORIA (interrupting him contemptuously). Mother: this man is a
+sentimental idiot. (She sweeps away to the fireplace.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Oh, my d e a r e s t Gloria, Mr. Valentine will
+think that rude.
+
+VALENTINE. I am not a sentimental idiot. I am cured of sentiment for
+ever. (He sits down in dudgeon.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON. Mr. Valentine: you must excuse us all. Women have to
+unlearn the false good manners of their slavery before they acquire the
+genuine good manners of their freedom. Don't think Gloria vulgar (Gloria
+turns, astonished): she is not really so.
+
+GLORIA. Mother! You apologize for me to h i m!
+
+MRS. CLANDON. My dear: you have some of the faults of youth as well as
+its qualities; and Mr. Valentine seems rather too old fashioned in his
+ideas about his own sex to like being called an idiot. And now had we
+not better go and see what Dolly is doing? (She goes towards the window.
+Valentine rises.)
+
+GLORIA. Do you go, mother. I wish to speak to Mr. Valentine alone.
+
+MRS. CLANDON (startled into a remonstrance). My dear! (Recollecting
+herself.) I beg your pardon, Gloria. Certainly, if you wish. (She bows
+to Valentine and goes out.)
+
+VALENTINE. Oh, if your mother were only a widow! She's worth six of you.
+
+GLORIA. That is the first thing I have heard you say that does you
+honor.
+
+VALENTINE. Stuff! Come: say what you want to say and let me go.
+
+GLORIA. I have only this to say. You dragged me down to your level for
+a moment this afternoon. Do you think, if that had ever happened before,
+that I should not have been on my guard--that I should not have known
+what was coming, and known my own miserable weakness?
+
+VALENTINE (scolding at her passionately). Don't talk of it in that way.
+What do I care for anything in you but your weakness, as you call it?
+You thought yourself very safe, didn't you, behind your advanced ideas!
+I amused myself by upsetting t h e m pretty easily.
+
+GLORIA (insolently, feeling that now she can do as she likes with him).
+Indeed!
+
+VALENTINE. But why did I do it? Because I was being tempted to awaken
+your heart--to stir the depths in you. Why was I tempted? Because Nature
+was in deadly earnest with me when I was in jest with her. When the
+great moment came, who was awakened? who was stirred? in whom did the
+depths break up? In myself--m y s e l f: I was transported: you were
+only offended--shocked. You were only an ordinary young lady, too
+ordinary to allow tame lieutenants to go as far as I went. That's all.
+I shall not trouble you with conventional apologies. Good-bye. (He makes
+resolutely for the door.)
+
+GLORIA. Stop. (He hesitates.) Oh, will you understand, if I tell you the
+truth, that I am not making an advance to you?
+
+VALENTINE. Pooh! I know what you're going to say. You think you're not
+ordinary--that I was right--that you really have those depths in your
+nature. It flatters you to believe it. (She recoils.) Well, I grant that
+you are not ordinary in some ways: you are a clever girl (Gloria stifles
+an exclamation of rage, and takes a threatening step towards him); but
+you've not been awakened yet. You didn't care: you don't care. It was
+my tragedy, not yours. Good-bye. (He turns to the door. She watches him,
+appalled to see him slipping from her grasp. As he turns the handle, he
+pauses; then turns again to her, offering his hand.) Let us part kindly.
+
+GLORIA (enormously relieved, and immediately turning her back on him
+deliberately.) Good-bye. I trust you will soon recover from the wound.
+
+VALENTINE (brightening up as it flashes on him that he is master of the
+situation after all). I shall recover: such wounds heal more than they
+harm. After all, I still have my own Gloria.
+
+GLORIA (facing him quickly). What do you mean?
+
+VALENTINE. The Gloria of my imagination.
+
+GLORIA (proudly). Keep your own Gloria--the Gloria of your imagination.
+(Her emotion begins to break through her pride.) The real Gloria--the
+Gloria who was shocked, offended, horrified--oh, yes, quite truly--who
+was driven almost mad with shame by the feeling that all her power over
+herself had been broken down at her first real encounter with--with--
+(The color rushes over her face again. She covers it with her left hand,
+and puts her right on his left arm to support herself.)
+
+VALENTINE. Take care. I'm losing my senses again. (Summoning all her
+courage, she takes away her hand from her face and puts it on his right
+shoulder, turning him towards her and looking him straight in the eyes.
+He begins to protest agitatedly.) Gloria: be sensible: it's no use: I
+haven't a penny in the world.
+
+GLORIA. Can't you earn one? Other people do.
+
+VALENTINE (half delighted, half frightened). I never could--you'd
+be unhappy-- My dearest love: I should be the merest fortune-hunting
+adventurer if-- (Her grip on his arms tightens; and she kisses him.)
+Oh, Lord! (Breathless.) Oh, I-- (He gasps.) I don't know anything about
+women: twelve years' experience is not enough. (In a gust of jealousy
+she throws him away from her; and he reels her back into the chair like
+a leaf before the wind, as Dolly dances in, waltzing with the waiter,
+followed by Mrs. Clandon and Finch, also waltzing, and Phil pirouetting
+by himself.)
+
+DOLLY (sinking on the chair at the writing-table). Oh, I'm out of
+breath. How beautifully you waltz, William!
+
+MRS. CLANDON (sinking on the saddlebag seat on the hearth). Oh, how
+could you make me do such a silly thing, Finch! I haven't danced since
+the soiree at South Place twenty years ago.
+
+GLORIA (peremptorily at Valentine). Get up. (Valentine gets up
+abjectly.) Now let us have no false delicacy. Tell my mother that we
+have agreed to marry one another. (A silence of stupefaction ensues.
+Valentine, dumb with panic, looks at them with an obvious impulse to run
+away.)
+
+DOLLY (breaking the silence). Number Six!
+
+PHILIP. Sh!
+
+DOLLY (tumultuously). Oh, my feelings! I want to kiss somebody; and we
+bar it in the family. Where's Finch?
+
+McCOMAS (starting violently). No, positively-- (Crampton appears in the
+window.)
+
+DOLLY (running to Crampton). Oh, you're just in time. (She kisses him.)
+Now (leading him forward) bless them.
+
+GLORIA. No. I will have no such thing, even in jest. When I need a
+blessing, I shall ask my mother's.
+
+CRAMPTON (to Gloria, with deep disappointment). Am I to understand that
+you have engaged yourself to this young gentleman?
+
+GLORIA (resolutely). Yes. Do you intend to be our friend or--
+
+DOLLY (interposing). --or our father?
+
+CRAMPTON. I should like to be both, my child. But surely--! Mr.
+Valentine: I appeal to your sense of honor.
+
+VALENTINE. You're quite right. It's perfect madness. If we go out to
+dance together I shall have to borrow five shillings from her for a
+ticket. Gloria: don't be rash: you're throwing yourself away. I'd much
+better clear straight out of this, and never see any of you again. I
+shan't commit suicide: I shan't even be unhappy. It'll be a relief to
+me: I--I'm frightened, I'm positively frightened; and that's the plain
+truth.
+
+GLORIA (determinedly). You shall not go.
+
+VALENTINE (quailing). No, dearest: of course not. But--oh, will somebody
+only talk sense for a moment and bring us all to reason! I can't.
+Where's Bohun? Bohun's the man. Phil: go and summon Bohun--
+
+PHILIP. From the vastly deep. I go. (He makes his bat quiver in the air
+and darts away through the window.)
+
+WAITER (harmoniously to Valentine). If you will excuse my putting in a
+word, sir, do not let a matter of five shillings stand between you and
+your happiness, sir. We shall be only too pleased to put the ticket down
+to you: and you can settle at your convenience. Very glad to meet you in
+any way, very happy and pleased indeed, sir.
+
+PHILIP (re-appearing). He comes. (He waves his bat over the window.
+Bohun comes in, taking off his false nose and throwing it on the table
+in passing as he comes between Gloria and Valentine.)
+
+VALENTINE. The point is, Mr. Bohun--
+
+McCOMAS (interrupting from the hearthrug). Excuse me, sir: the point
+must be put to him by a solicitor. The question is one of an engagement
+between these two young people. The lady has some property, and (looking
+at Crampton) will probably have a good deal more.
+
+CRAMPTON. Possibly. I hope so.
+
+VALENTINE. And the gentleman hasn't a rap.
+
+BOHUN (nailing Valentine to the point instantly). Then insist on a
+settlement. That shocks your delicacy: most sensible precautions do. But
+you ask my advice; and I give it to you. Have a settlement.
+
+GLORIA (proudly). He shall have a settlement.
+
+VALENTINE. My good sir, I don't want advice for myself. Give h e r some
+advice.
+
+BOHUN. She won't take it. When you're married, she won't take yours
+either-- (turning suddenly on Gloria) oh, no, you won't: you think you
+will; but you won't. He'll set to work and earn his living-- (turning
+suddenly to Valentine) oh, yes, you will: you think you won't; but you
+will. She'll make you.
+
+CRAMPTON (only half persuaded). Then, Mr. Bohun, you don't think this
+match an unwise one?
+
+BOHUN. Yes, I do: all matches are unwise. It's unwise to be born; it's
+unwise to be married; it's unwise to live; and it's unwise to die.
+
+WAITER (insinuating himself between Crampton and Valentine). Then, if
+I may respectfully put in a word in, sir, so much the worse for
+wisdom! (To Valentine, benignly.) Cheer up, sir, cheer up: every man is
+frightened of marriage when it comes to the point; but it often turns
+out very comfortable, very enjoyable and happy indeed, sir--from time
+to time. I never was master in my own house, sir: my wife was like your
+young lady: she was of a commanding and masterful disposition, which my
+son has inherited. But if I had my life to live twice over, I'd do it
+again, I'd do it again, I assure you. You never can tell, sir: you never
+can tell.
+
+PHILIP. Allow me to remark that if Gloria has made up her mind--
+
+DOLLY. The matter's settled and Valentine's done for. And we're missing
+all the dances.
+
+VALENTINE (to Gloria, gallantly making the best of it). May I have a
+dance--
+
+BOHUN (interposing in his grandest diapason). Excuse me: I claim that
+privilege as counsel's fee. May I have the honor--thank you. (He dances
+away with Gloria and disappears among the lanterns, leaving Valentine
+gasping.)
+
+VALENTINE (recovering his breath). Dolly: may I-- (offering himself as
+her partner)?
+
+DOLLY. Nonsense! (Eluding him and running round the table to the
+fireplace.) Finch--my Finch! (She pounces on McComas and makes him
+dance.)
+
+McCOMAS (protesting). Pray restrain--really--(He is borne off dancing
+through the window.)
+
+VALENTINE (making a last effort). Mrs. Clandon: may I--
+
+PHILIP (forestalling him). Come, mother. (He seizes his mother and
+whirls her away.)
+
+MRS. CLANDON (remonstrating). Phil, Phil-- (She shares McComas's fate.)
+
+CRAMPTON (following them with senile glee). Ho! ho! He! he! he! (He goes
+into the garden chuckling at the fun.)
+
+VALENTINE (collapsing on the ottoman and staring at the waiter). I might
+as well be a married man already. (The waiter contemplates the captured
+Duellist of Sex with affectionate commiseration, shaking his head
+slowly.)
+
+CURTAIN.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's You Never Can Tell, by George Bernard Shaw
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